


Number 59: Camio

by Sonora



Series: Heads in Boxes [2]
Category: The Blacklist (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Study, Emotional Manipulation, Feels and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Character Death, Mission Fic, Psychological Torture, Rough Sex, Slow Build, Topping from the Bottom, Torture, Undercover As Gay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-01-19 04:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 32,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1456012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sonora/pseuds/Sonora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ressler knows there's more to the story than Reddington is giving him; pose as a couple, spend a week on a Caribbean sail cruise, take down a drug lord.  Who does that - when does that ever actually happen?  However, the biggest danger on this mission isn't necessarily their target but Reddington himself, as Ressler finds himself increasingly conflicted over where his loyalties lie, and to whom.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> We need a "going gay for the mission" fic in this fandom like burning. So I'm writing it. Even if it's decided it's not going to be crack. ;p

“I can’t believe you talked me into this.”

“That is one of those thoughts you’re supposed to have, not share.”

“This isn’t exactly standard operating procedure for a…”

“Relax, Donny, have a drink.  Stop taking yourself so seriously.”  Reddington sat gracefully back down at the small table, sliding one of the two tumblers in his hand across to the fuming FBI man.  “Pretend there’s something under those adorable little shorts besides Quantico and the stars and stripes.”

Ressler accepted the whiskey with a grimace, curling his fingers around the sweating glass.  

The day was warm, but the breeze off the ocean cool, whipping up beyond the shining teak and brass of the open-air bar, near the back of the huge boat.  A clipper, Reddington had correctly irritably, but the criminal could go fuck himself, as far as Ressler was concerned.

That Director Cooper had agreed to this was bad enough; Reddington claiming free reign over his wardrobe was almost unbearable.  When did men’s clothes start coming out with floral patterns?  Why was that a thing?  Why was anything in that accursed luggage a thing?

Why’d Reddington get tailored linen suits, and he get…

“Well, you saw to that, didn’t you?”

“It’s not my fault you’ve got a stick so far up your ass that I have to compensate for it in other ways.”  Reddington sounded almost bored.  It was infuriating.  “Even all these jejune but perfectly nice, I’m sure, Midwesterners onboard weren’t going to buy you as a gay man, Donny.  You really must learn to loosen up.”

“So you packed…” and Ressler stopped, taking a sip of his drink before continuing, keeping his voice low.   “So you think making me wear these fucking panties is going to do that?”

Reddington just laughed - one of those deep, unnerving belly laughs of his - and laid a far-too-friendly hand on Ressler’s thigh.  “Darling, I know you’re upset that I threw out that green silk pair you were wearing the night we met, but we did thoroughly ruin them in Paris.  At your insistence, not mine, if you care to remember.”

Ressler gave him a sharp glare, readying some acerbic retort, but there at the table next to them, a pair of mid-thirties women in tropical sundresses were just sitting down.  Both of them pretending not to be looking, not to be giggling.

He knew why.  

Knew that the fucking shorts he was wearing didn’t quite hide the top of the red lace band beneath.

There was no helping it, though.  The ship wasn’t big enough to hide, or pretend, or play it off.  They’d pushed back from the dock at Barbados a mere two hours ago, and Ressler had the uncomfortable feeling that he’d know everybody’s faces by lunch tomorrow.  That everybody would know his.  

And as much as he hated it, he wasn’t about to blow their cover story.  The FBI, the job, was all he had left.  He wasn’t going to lose it over a week-long game of gay chicken with Raymond Reddington.

He was a professional - he could keep his shit together.   He could.

So he just leaned over the table, laying a hand over Reddington’s, digging his nails in a little.  “I’m going to take this out of your ass later, you know that, Raymond dear?” he said, just loud enough for the ladies adjacent to hear.  “I really adored that set.”

And lounged back again, smiling over the top of his drink at the other man.

Who had the temerity to just look intrigued.

Fuck, Ressler hated his job sometimes.

+++++

“I’m being tagged for what, exactly?” he’d asked, not twenty hours before.

“Is there a problem, Agent Ressler?” the answer had come, almost immediately.

And that was the point at which Ressler might have figured out that the entire thing was utter insanity. Even if he didn’t know the details yet.

The info was sketchy. An undercover assignment with Reddington, a snatch and grab in Puerto Rico. Easy, supposedly. And yet...

Keen had raised her hand halfway, palm sort of twisting, eyes on Reddington, who’d affected an air of boredom, perched on the end of the table in the main briefing room. The lights were down, the mission slides were concluded, and she looked pretty much how Ressler felt. 

“I’d concur.”

The look on their boss’ face could have curdled milk. “This is a straightforward op. We’ve got a chance to capture one of the most notorious cartel bosses in Central America, and, using Reddington’s personal connections, we just might be able to pull it off. Answer me honestly, where’s the confusion coming from here?”

“Sir, I understand that, but Agent Malik or I would be far more qualified to take this on and...”

“Don’t be jealous, Lizzy,” Reddington said, stifling an entirely fake yawn with a loose hand. “You’ve had your turn, I think we owe Donald a little time outside the playground fence too, don’t you?”

“It’s not about that!”

“What are you worried about, exactly, Agent Keen?” Cooper asked, and Ressler glanced up from his notepad long enough to catch the slight grimace on the woman’s face, the way she was pressing her lips together. He may not have cared much for profiling in his investigations, but Ressler knew his colleague’s moods. 

She thought it was a horrible idea.

And - even before he knew what was waiting for him - Ressler couldn’t really argue with that.

“Sir, I...”

“I think what Agent Keen is trying to say, sir, is that I have quite a bit of paperwork to finish up on that last arrest we made,” he said.

“Afraid to leave the playground then, Donald?” Reddington asked. 

He rubbed his forehead, dropping his attention back to the pad in front of him. He hadn’t bothered taking notes, shapeless little scribbles meandering across the yellow page, no sense to any of them. In three days, it would be six months since Audrey’s death, and he still couldn’t get any of it out of his head. Spending even a few days in close proximity to Reddington - with the snark and the constant insults and the...

“I have work to do here, Director,” he’d begged.

The frown on Keen’s face turned from disapproval to concern, and hell, if that wasn’t worse. She sat forward in her chair. “If we need somebody to perform this mission, Director, I can...”

Out of the corner of his eye, Ressler saw Reddington start to unwind from that studiously lazy pose, lean forward, open his mouth.

But thank fuck for Cooper, who just glared at the both of them.

“Am I not speaking English? What part of this discussion do you not understand? I...”

“Harold, leave the kiddies be,” Reddington interrupted then, standing, hat balanced carefully in his hand. Ressler watched him with trepidation; as much as he wanted to know what the game was, the real game, not the briefing bullshit, he didn’t want to be anywhere near whatever was going down. “Lizzy, don’t worry, I’ll bring him in one piece and make sure he doesn’t walk into anybody’s fists. Donald, Meera’s got a nice care package waiting for you at your desk, the usual fake documents and background. Read up, but don’t worry too much about it. A week in the Caribbean’s going to do you a world of good. Stop moping and come on.”

Throat clenching at the implicit command, Ressler glanced over at his boss, wanting a real order if he had to go do this. “Sir?”

“Plane leaves in six hours, Agent. I expect you both to be on it.”

Reddington smirked, and swept out of the room.

Ressler had the strangest sensation, falling into line behind, that he wasn’t going to come back from this one intact at all.

+++++

They finished their drinks as more people from the cruise drifted aft, looking for booze and shade, and soon, the bar was crowded enough that Reddington’s normal easy demeanor hardened to well-concealed tension. They ceded their table, Reddington’s hand finding its way to the small of Ressler’s back, guiding him further along the port rail, out of the sun and into the quiet of the side of the ship. Settling into a quiet place

“Not quite at full speed yet,” the master criminal observed at length, glancing up at the sails. Ressler couldn’t make heads or tails of what he was looking at, but then, he’d grown up in Ohio. The sea had always been a bit of a mystery to him. “She’ll get there. Not as fast as a racing yatch, by any means, but enough to mess even your hair, Donald.”

He nodded, thinking. About the last time somebody had come gunning for the older man’s head. “I thought you hated being contained.”

“Normally, I do. But there’s something very free about the ocean, don’t you think?”

“You’re trying to draw him out. That’s why you’re doing this. You’re purposely making yourself a target.”

Reddington smiled. “See? I told you there was something you were good at.”

“Why me?” Ressler let himself lean against the rail, spread out a little bit. He’d been cooped up too long, with the plane and the ride from the airport and the low decks and the confining collar of the shirt - blouse, more like it - that Reddington had insisted he wear. It felt good to stretch, feel the sun on his face. He didn’t see the sun so much anymore; hazard of working in a classified facility like he did. “What’s my actual role in this?”

“The same basic details that I gave Cooper, that Cooper gave you. We’re after Ruiz Miguel Aberquero...”

“One of the old Gulf Cartel bosses, correct?”

“Close, but not quite. He’s more commonly known to his men as General Camio, or, one of the founding members and driving forces behind Los Zetas.” Reddington drummed his fingers on the rail. “He’s had a bit of a grudge against me since the last 90s. He was smuggling pre-teen girls from Guatemala into El Paso, hit a Border Patrol road block, and ordered the entire place destroyed, girls included.”

Ressler nodded slowly, biting his lip. Los Zetas. Fuck. But he’d fucked enough arrests in front of Reddington, both before and since the Blacklist nonsense had started up, and if it killed him, he’d resolved see this one through right. Although Cooper never would have let either of them out of the country if that little detail had been added to the briefing packge. 

“I remember that. An entire station went up. Bombing, correct?”

“It didn’t make the national news, but yes. Good memory.”

He ignored the faint note of praise, for the manipulation it had to be. “What’s your role in that?”

“I don’t smuggle children,” Reddington replied, voice flat. His finger was still tapping the rail. 

“You called it in.”

“Donald, I place about as much faith in the INH as I do in the FBI or CIA. Your country’s federal enforcement infrastructure is broken. But it doesn’t matter what I did or didn’t do, it’s what he believes.”

“So why is this hot again?”

“I thought you could use the vacation.”

“On a boat...”

“It’s a clipper, Donny...”

“... where some crazed paramilitary drug lord is going to try to kill you, because it’s a convenient target,” he finished, and narrowed his eyes. “What aren’t you telling me? Why all...” and he waved a hand down his body.

“Well, your fashion sense is tragic, especially for a man of your all-American Adonis physique, and more importantly, because I need a reason to be here.” He sipped at his drink. “As you mentioned, Raymond Reddington does not make himself a target like this, ever. But if his slightly spoiled and overbearing boyfriend demands a cruise, he makes exceptions.”

“So I’m your cover.”

“Yes.”

“Why not... why not Keen? She’s a better agent, better in a fight. Hell, last time somebody shot at me you ended up having to give me a blood transfusion.”

Reddington leaned forward. “Where did this come from, Donald? This insistence that you’re not good at your job?”

“It’s the truth,” he replied quietly, and damn the underwear he had on; it was warm up on deck, and he could feel himself starting to sweat. Made the lace itchy against his balls. “It’s no put-down to me to acknowledge that Keen’s a better agent.”

“You kept up with me for five years. You should be proud of that. I just need you to do it again. For a week. Now,” - and Reddington laid an arm around his waist, pulled him closer, tipped his head up with one firm hand, fingers gently playing across his throat - “be a good boy and play your part. There’s at least one person on Camio’s payroll on this clipper, and our cabin will be bugged by dinner, if it’s not already. I need you to cooperate. Can you do that?”

Looking up, Ressler could see people gathering on the upper rail of the top deck. Reddington’s body was solid against his own, a bulwark against something he didn’t quite understand, and didn’t want to. 

“We’ve fucked before,” he whispered, throat suddenly rough.

“Yes, we have. When you needed it, since Audrey,” the other replied seriously. “I’ve never said no to you, have I?”

Ressler opened his mouth, and closed it, shaking his head as if somehow, that would dislodge the words. It had only been a few times; three, maybe four encounters, rough and dirty, no tenderness in any of it and none needed. 

He’d never done this before.

Reddington kissed him regardless.

And for a hot-white, terrible second, it felt good.


	2. Chapter 2

The afternoon passed slowly, as the land faded from view and the world turned all to turquoise waters and the cleanest skies Ressler had seen since that mission in Malaysia back in ’10.  Reddington had taken off on him, brandishing a sat phone and somehow managing to disappear on a boat that seemed too small for such a feat.  

Because left with nothing else to do, Ressler had taken it upon himself to walk the entire craft, learning the layout of all the open access areas, noting the locations of the locked doors and where they led, where the exits and lifeboats were.  He had no idea what was coming, but if they were dealing with the Zetas, almost anything was possible.  Those fuckers were better funded than the SEALS.

While he didn’t have so much as a revolver.

Reddington hadn’t seen fit to pack anything.

And Ressler was in the process of tearing their luggage apart, again, when Reddington finally came back from whatever the fuck it was he’d been doing.

“Donny, darling, I know that you’re a little upset about how small the cabins are, but I assure you, you brought enough clothes.”

Reddington, smug, jacket slung over his shoulder by one finger, white oxford not as crisp as when they first came aboard, the sweat along the shoulder rendering the fabric just transparent enough to make out the form of the tattoo beneath.  Ressler had seen that one, the second time they’d... well, done whatever it was they were doing with each other.  Something from his Annapolis days, Thai characters, faded from thirty years of wear.

Ressler sighed, and flipped the lid to Reddington’s suitcase shut.  “I was just wondering if you’d remembered to pack my board shorts, since I forgot them,” he said, trying to stay focused, stay in character, whoever that character was; he didn’t know the Donald Irvington from his passport.  

Just that for whatever reason, he’d agree to go on a cruise with the man in front of him.

“Way your cock pokes out in that little number you love so much?”  Tossing his jacket away with a little flourish, the criminal kicked the door shut.  “Why would I want to ruin the view with boardshorts?”

Dammit, Ressler thought, and sat down on the edge of the bed - the only bed, he’d noticed with some chagrin, in their suite.  “Raymond,” he tried, emphasizing the criminal’s name, “this isn’t exactly a pride cruise, is it?”

And that had Reddington cocking his head, in the way he always did when something amused him, walking towards him.  Ressler felt his neck grow hot.  “Hmm, there are quite a few people from Ohio on this ship, aren’t there?”

“Raymond, you promised me I didn’t have to buy a new pair in Barbados.”  He held up the little strip of cloth that he was sure, sooner or later, he just knew he was going to have to put on.  “Do you really want me wearing these out on deck?”  He hoped it didn’t sound like he was pleading.  Because he was pleading.

“If it were up to me, Donny,” Reddington chuckled, taking the shorts away from him, “you’d never wear anything but.”  He leaned in closer, between Ressler’s knees, breath tickling over the short hairs of Ressler’s neck.  “Good boy.”

“I hate you,” he whispered back, and kissed the older man’s jaw, just below the ear.

“Better than you did in Berlin already,” came the quiet answer, and then Reddington was pulling back, laying both hands on his shoulders.  “I’ll get you a pair at the next port of call.”

“You can’t have them just choppered out?”

“Do I really spoil you that much, darling?”  Reddington’s smile was all teeth, his fingers starting to creep up into Ressler’s hair.  He smelled different, the FBI agent suddenly noticed, not of his usual five hundred dollar cologne, but of sweat and salt-air, like the sea.  “That I’d fly you a pair of swim trunks because you forgot to pack yours?”

“Maybe I forgot on purpose, to see what’d you’d do.”

“I do pamper you overmuch, don’t I?”

“Pulling out the AP English words again?”

Reddington laughed, one of those deep, loud belly laughs of his, and tugged Ressler’s head back, nipping at his throat.  “You know it turns you on, boy.”  And before Ressler could react to that, the criminal was between his knees, shoving them apart.

He swallowed; they’d done this before, of course they had, but never this casual, this easy.  Like Reddington had the right to assume... had the right to touch without permission...

But there were cameras.

That was all this was.

All it needed to be.

“Re-Raymond?”

A hand stroked over his fly.  “What is it, Donny?”

He closed his eyes and forced the words out.  “It’s just been a while, that’s all.  Since we saw each other.”

“My business takes me to quite a few places you can’t come.”

Shit.  Did Irvington know?  About what Reddington, his life, his work?  Where had the background information gone - the usual brief hadn’t been in Malik’s package, and Reddington had given him nothing.  “Maybe you go to places I don’t want to go.”

Reddington smirked, and undid the top button on his shorts.  He tensed.  “And maybe you’re a spoiled little boy who thinks foreign travel is all state dinners and Bentleys, Donny.  You really should let me take you to Laos sometime.  Not a Bentley in the whole country, and I assure you, you will get parasites.  Wonderful experience.”

And Ressler was about to ask what in the hell was so wonderful about catching parasites, or what kind of bedroom talk this was supposed to be, when the scrape of lace over his half-hard cock sent a dizzying wave of need clean through him.

“Holy fuck,” he gasped, scrambling for purchase on something, hips bucking.

“You and lace,” Reddington chuckled, sliding his hand along Ressler’s length, dragging the damp silk of the panties up with it, starting an unbearably slow glide.  “I do adore your kinky side, sweetheart.”

Kinky?  Sweetheart  Hardly.  And Reddington knew that, and Ressler couldn’t think with that hand working him like that, and he just ground his teeth, kneed him in the shoulder.  “Shut up and suck me,” he snapped.  

Reddington laughed.

But complied, swallowing him down without a second of foreplay.

Head hitting the mattress, blood rushing south, Ressler couldn’t help the groan that tore loose of him. He could feel his cock fattening in Reddington’s mouth, the sensitive underside pressing down hard and thick the older man’s tongue, and it wasn’t what he wanted - the scrape of another man’s stubble against his groin, the heat of an adversary’s body against his own, steely fingers kneading the firm muscles of his thighs - none of it was ever what he wanted.

But it was more than he had, anymore.

Reddington knew what he was doing - with Ressler, with anyone, probably.  The criminal was better at this than anyone Ressler had ever slept with, as good with his tongue like this as he was with the lies he spun, and the younger man just closed his eyes and let his body do what it needed to do.

It was over quick.

It’d been a while since the last time they’d seen each other.  Those quick, meaningless sessions.  Sex, and nothing more, Ressler told himself as he came, pulsing hard into the older man’s mouth.  Meaningless.  Had to be.

Reddington had never had a use for him.

Reddington was watching him, though, as he floated back to the surface.  Watching him in that curious-yet-indifferent way of his, feline, predatory.

"Did you enjoy that, Donny?" he asked - and hell, his voice was thick, like Ressler's come was still clinging to the back of his throat.

He didn't say anything.  Couldn't.  Not with the wave of shame cresting over, the knowledge that he'd just let Reddington blow him on camera.

But if the older man felt any shame, he didn't show it.  Just sat back up and leaned in, kissed him on the forehead and patted his cheek.  "I'll go get us a table for dinner, shall I?" he commented quietly.  "Get dressed and come join me."

And mercifully, was gone.

Ressler didn't move - in part, because his stomach was roiling violently, and in part, because he didn't want to give Reddington the satisfaction of following his orders, not anymore than he had to, anyway.  He just stared at the ceiling, the little details in the teak millwork, wondering what in the hell he'd done in his life, with his life, to end up like this.  He'd been asking himself that question, though, since Audrey gave him the ring back, her pleas as unvoiced as her tears were unfallen, _why is he more important to you than me?_

 _Five years trying to make my name._  That was what he'd told Reddington, half-gone with pain in that fucking box back at the Post Office.  Five years, during which he'd met, held, lost, the love of his life.  And for what?  He'd asked himself that so many times over the past few months.  What good had come of any of it for him?

That pregnancy test...

Shoving it away, Ressler forced himself to stir, at least brush his teeth and take a shower, get the gel out of his hair and the day's sweat off his skin.  He was gritty with salt, which came away smooth, but nothing but time was going to take the whisker burn off the inside of his thighs.  It almost felt good, soaping over the top of it, and he shuddered.

The whole thing made him very, very tired.

Reddington hadn't seen fit to pack him anything to sleep in - and why they had to consent to cameras in their cabin in the first place, Ressler had no idea.  Sleeping in the same bed was bad enough, but sleeping naked was enough to drive him to steal a pair of his bunkmate's boxers.  

He toweled the last of the moisture from his hair and switched off the lights and opened a porthole to the cool, sweet air outside, before curling up as close as he could to the wall.  Th mattress was softer, the sheets nicer, than anything he'd expected to find on a boat, which didn't make any of it better. 

In the dark, stars visible just beyond the edge of the ship's lights, Ressler wondered who Donald Irvington was.  Where he was born and what he did for a living.  Who he'd have to be to fall in love with a man like Reddington.  Or if he wasn't in love at all, and just enjoyed having a sugar daddy.

That last thought made his stomach curl up even tighter; Ressler hadn't taken a cent from anyone, not even family, since the day he'd left for college.  Worked his way through himself, on part-time jobs and academic scholarships.  Earned his FBI internship fair and square, although he couldn't now remember why in the hell they'd selected him.  It had never been very much, but it had been his, and he'd paid too much for Audrey's engagement ring, but the look on her face had been more than worth it.  It had crushed him when she'd given it back.

He'd been looking forward to giving it back.  Never had been able to bring himself to take it back to Ben Bridge.

He missed her so much sometimes, he ached.

So his thoughts wandered, his mind drifted, and he hadn't made any decisions about who Irvington was, by the time he finally drifted off to sleep.

Perhaps a mistake.

Since it left him woefully unprepared to deal with the following morning.

+++++

 Reddington had, apparently, numbered his clothes, little Japanese numerals on the tags for what was supposed to go together.  Under normal circumstances, Ressler would have considered that to be insane, but these were not normal circumstances and he was - not that he'd admit it - somewhat grateful.  

He also had no idea how he was supposed to get through the week like that.

He really, really hated the contents of that suitcase.

Most of it was at least modest, if far too preppy for his taste, and he felt ridiculous, sipping his coffee over the remains of his second plate, staring out the small, sunny windows of the ship's dining room.  The waistband of today's shorts was pulling tight, after breakfast; the buffet spread was better than what he'd been expecting.  And the coffee was good.  And Reddington wasn't sitting across from him with a smirk on his lips and triumph in his eyes.  And no crazed, cocaine-fueled, paramilitary general had tried to kill him yet.  

Made everything almost pleasant.

Reddington hadn't been there when he'd woken up, a note pinned to the slept-on pillow.   _Working._  Which likely meant he'd be able to sleep some more, or enjoy their port call with a beer and no company, or...

"Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?"

It was one of those women from the afternoon before, mid-thirties, kind of cute but not really his type, in another tie-dye sundress, smiling blandly.

"Umm," he flailed, and glanced around.  And yeah, most of the other tables were full, and he'd gotten there early, gotten himself a four-top.  "Sure, please."  He waved at the seat, pushing it out a little with his foot.

She smiled wider and sat, eggs and fruit in front of her.  "Such a gentleman."

"I try."

"Dana."

"Hmm?"

"Oh, right, whoops," and she wiped a bit of fruit juice off her fingers, extending her hand.  "I'm Dana Williams.  Thought I'd get into the spirit, what with the captain's briefing this morning and all.  It's a small ship, isn't it?"

"I think it's a clipper," Ressler replied, smiling back with an enthusiasm he didn't feel - connections, even casual ones, made maintaining a cover far more difficult - and shaking her hand.  "Donald Irvington.  Nice to meet you."

"Sorry to impose on your breakfast, but my friend's seasick, although I have no idea why, it's gorgeous out there and... oh, wait, your partner's not coming is he?  I can get another table..."

Ressler waved her down.  "It's fine.  He had some work to do.  Probably parked himself in that library I saw on one of the decks.  Just his style."

"Libraries, or working on vacation?"

Shit.  And this was why he hated these sorts of conversations.  Ressler liked to think that he was quite good at managing a cover story, but making up the details himself was a bit more of a challenge.  He'd never been comfortable, wearing somebody else's skin.  "Both, maybe.  He loves that old world, Edwardian aesthetic they have going on down there, but vacations?"  His coffee was going cold and getting low.  He poured himself another cup from the carafe at the table, filling a cup for Dana as well, buying time to think.  "I don't know.  I don't think he takes vacations.  Or his entire life is one long one.  Still not sure about that."

She rapped a sugar packet against her knuckles, like that was extremely important information.  "So you've known him a long time, then?"

"About five, six years.  Haven't been together for all of that, but..."

"That's still so sweet."

Ressler couldn't help the snort.  "He's not a sweet guy."

"Oh come on," she said, and leaned forward a little.  "Looked like he was plenty into you."

He coughed, shaking his head.  "So your friend, she got sick this morning?”

“The ocean, but it’s not that bad, I thought, just this nice gentle roll... do you sail much? You look like you’re just so at home out here. We’re from Ohio and we never see the ocean, not even the Lakes, where the rollers can really pick up, I’ve heard, and...”

Sighing as she kept talking, Ressler sipped at his coffee and wondered if that international SIM card in his phone would work down here.

+++++

Turned out it didn’t.

Turned out he didn’t really need it.

Reddington was still conspicuously absent as the clipper put in to a worn little dock at a worn little town; elegant, with hints of a colonial past, more recent resort re-stylings. Not quite Ressler’s taste, those last touches - Audrey had been the one in their relationship who’d liked things fresh and new and shiny, always teasing him about his old, drafty apartment, picking out sleek new Danish things for the modern, new condo they’d never bought, much less moved into. 

But it was still pleasant enough to stroll around the streets and poke around in the shops and stop for that beer.

Even if he hadn’t been able to shake Dana. If he’d picked up her friend - Bethany, ironically enough - as well, the slightly gray-faced Midwesterner catching up with them as they disembarked. It was better than spending all that time alone with his thoughts, and the two ladies were the kind of normal, sane company he hadn’t had much of over the past few years.

They didn’t remind him of Audrey.

They talked most of the time, too. Which helped.

They were from Ohio, out for a bit of early summer fun - _an adventure, we said, screw deadlines at the office!_ , while Bethany tittered - and endlessly curious about every little thing behind every door and down every alley. Ressler couldn’t remember the last time he’d been that excited about visiting a place.

He thought about the Post Office.

And then didn’t.

But they didn’t do all the talking and they weren’t curious just about the town, which meant he had to say something to fill in their expectant little pauses with information about a man he knew nothing about.

Donald Irvington.

Midwesterner, like them, he figured - he hadn’t spent those summers working cattle ranches in North Dakota for nothing, after all, when his scholarships at Northwestern fell through. They seemed to find that adorable, and it was easy enough to remember, so he tacked a few more little things on for them. No siblings - he’d never been close to his sisters. Ten years in DC - it’d been too long since he’d lived anywhere else. Places he’d seen, bars he liked, the best time to go running along the Lincoln Memorial, little anecdotes about college that didn’t matter at all and were more and more made up as the day crept along. Arms’ length kind of stuff that they seemed to be eating up anyway.

Ressler didn’t really understand it. Women always told him he was intimidating, stand-offish, cold. Too professional.

Maybe it was the floral-print shorts.

He really didn’t know.

Irvington wasn’t him, though. 

It felt good to hide in that. Good enough that they were back at that same table for dinner that night that they’d been at for breakfast, laughing over appetizers and some story he was relating from something stupid his frat had done, before he’d had to leave.

When a hand landed on his shoulder.

And he almost jumped out of his seat.

“Oh, no need to get up, Donny.” Reddington. Smug. In another very nice, very understated, pale linen suit, perfectly put together, and for some reason, Ressler suddenly felt completely uncomposed. Shit. Had he been keeping character well enough today? Did it matter? Shit. “And ladies. I take it you’ve been keeping my friend here company today?”

They looked at each other. Back to Ressler.

“I thought he was your...”

“Partner?” Ressler shot Reddington a sideways glance. “I don’t know if that word really fits, but...”

Reddington laughed, and a hand migrated to his shoulder. “You’ll have to forgive Donny, he’s very uptight, worried about his job...”

“Yeah, you haven’t told us anything about him,” Bethany said, waggling her fork at them both from across the table.

Ressler shook his head, still feeling hideously off-balance. “Less said about him, the better.”

“You are so adorable when you’re feeling queasy, darling,” Reddington laughed, a lilting, mocking tone in his voice.  “May I suggest tea instead of beer, until your stomach settles into the sail?”

“Not all of us came up in the Navy,” he grumbled.

“Oh, you’re a vet, Raymond?” Bethan practically cooed.  

“Yes he is,” Ressler said, getting in front of Reddington before he could start talking - because seriously, fuck him.  “We actually met at the VA.  I was doing some volunteering, he was in for his annual physical, and we just... hit it off.  Didn’t we, baby?”  He turned his smile on the wife.  “I had to hold his hand for the blood draw.”

“Ohh,” Dana said. “That’s so sweet.”

Reddington shot him a strange glance.  

Ressler just smiled back at him. Served him right. Asshole.

Felt like triumph. For a second.

“So do you boys do?”

“A bit of this and that these days,” Reddington said smoothly, stroking Ressler’s shoulder with his thumb. “Donny here’s the fun one. Aren’t you, darling?”

“Why don’t you tell them what I do?” he shot back, tired and a little sore from sunburn, now that he’d stopped moving. 

Reddington nodded.

And said it.

+++++

Dinner was painful, after that, Ressler back on edge now that Reddington had taken control of the situation again, overpowered him. Any comfort he’d had in things faded; his marginal comfort with deception far outstripped by Reddington’s painful mastery of it. The small talk became unbearable, his unease growing with every word. The food was decent, but he barely tasted it, and when Reddington excused them from the table, Ressler was the one that snagged them a table in the ship’s airy atrium.

They needed to talk.

The room wasn’t safe.

Goddammit.

“Lovely girls, don’t you think?” Reddington observed, flagging down a waiter. “Quite taken with you.”

“To them, I’m gay,” he snorted, wanting to get back on topic. Talk about... _that_.

“Exactly, women love a guy who’s not trying to get in their pants. It’s a novel experience for them, you’d be amazed.”

“But...”

“Yes, coffee, both of us. Decaf, if you please, and none of those weird pink sugar packets. Cause cancer in lab rats, you know.”

“No, I don’t need...” but the waiter was already moving away, “Red, I don’t need coffee, I need to talk to you about...”

“I agree, decaf coffee is completely uncivilized, but...”

“State Department?” he hissed, cutting off that non-sequitur before it could start. “Irvington works for the State Department?”

“Anslo,” Reddington replied serenely.  

He stared. What did that asshole have to do with anything? “You lost me.”

“That little stunt you pulled, coming to Berlin, lying to me about Agent Keen.”

Ressler frowned out across the atrium, the incident hazy in his memory, as the waiter came back with a carafe and a couple of cups.  “But you were just playing it off.”

“In front of some very connected people.  You have no idea how fast word gets around the criminal underworld, it’s like goddamn high school sometimes, with the rumors and the speculation and the who’s sleeping with who.”   He poured them both a cup, offering Ressler the sugar.  “People who, I might add, have friends in the State Department as well.”

“So you, just, created an identity for me?”  He thought about the passport, all the countries stamped in it, its worn edges.  “To cover yourself.”

 “See, that’s what I like about you, Donny.  You are very good at coloring inside the lines.  Very good.”  The ship tilted a little, swaying beneath them, the coffee in their cups not quite spilling out the top.  The perfect height and fullness, something someday with years of shipboard time might have picked up, he realized.  

“So where's the passport I was supposed to get?”

It was - predictably - ignored. “Name, birthdate, position in Washington that nobody’s going to question, low enough on the totem pole so none of my friends’ friends will ever realize you exist, or don’t.”  His eyes narrowed, appraising.  “Which works for you.  You have federal bureaucrat stamped all over you.”

“But I don’t know anything about this guy, I spent the whole day scrambling with those girls to...”

Reddington reached across the table, patting his hand.  “You, Donny, get to decide who you are.  Free rein, white paper, draw your own adventure.  It’ll be fun.”

“Yeah,” he replied, rolling his eyes, “figuring out why anyone would fall in love with you is just my idea of fun.”


	3. Chapter 3

“Suntan lotion, darling?”

Ressler barely had time to look up from his book before the tube was hurtling straight at his face. He grabbed it before it connected, tossing it right back at Reddington.

A Reddington who was wearing the most ridiculous Hawaiian-print shorts Ressler had ever seen.

He did not look nearly as bad shirtless as the FBI agent had expected.

“I put it on before I left,” he said, going back to the novel. He’d borrowed it from the ship library, some old tome smelling of age and adventure, too skinny to be anything published in the last fifty years. He liked that, old stories, written in old styles. The one in his hand was about mountaineering in the Himalayas, soothing, considering that he was stuck in ninty-degree heat and an endless amount of sun.

“With your skin, Donny, I would recommend a far more liberal application.”

“Stop with the flirting. Nobody’s around.” 

“And what makes you think I need people around to flirt with you?”

“I just arrived at base camp, Reddington, and somebody just got murdered. Possibly by a Sherpa. Can this wait for the dinner theater tonight?”

“No, actually,” - and just like that, all the playfulness was gone - “we need to talk, Donny.” 

He set his book aside, swinging his legs over the edge of the small folding chair he’d taken from the supplies the crew had laid out for the guests, upon disembarkation. They were scheduled to spend most of the day on this idyllic little spit of sand and green reef, something Key - he hadn’t rally been paying attention that morning in the captain’s brief that Reddington had suggested they go to.

Only to walk on him again, sat phone in hand, before it started.

It had been more than a little annoying, being ditched like that, and Ressler had barely paid attention.

Not because they were actually a couple, actually on a cruise together.

Ressler had found himself a secluded place, away from the nicest beach with the dark waters that spoke of good snorkeling. Book and chair and towel, that was all he needed, and it had been a peaceful few hours. Time to read. Space. He hadn’t had that in a long, long time.

But all he could use it for, all he could think about, was how much Audrey would have loved this.

It would have been a nice place to photograph, maybe towards the end of the day, when the light started shifting, his girl in one of those flowy silk dresses all the women seemed to be wearing, staring out at the setting sun, and...

“So. Camio?”

“My contacts in Mexico City say he’s moving. I expect at least one, possibly two or maybe even three of his henchmen will show their faces in the next day or two.” Reddington paused, nodding, agreeing with himself. “Or the psychopath will just bomb the boat, you never can tell with these Zetas.”

Ressler blinked. “What?”

“But I’m keeping you from your Sherpa murder mystery,” the older man just laughed, and then cocked his head. “You need to put that sunscreen on, Donny. A boy with your complexion...” , He tapped his shoulders. “Lean forward, Donny.”

He was complying before he could stop himself, Reddington swinging a leg over the back of his lounger, sitting down, grabbing the sunscreen out of his lap, before he could do anything about it.

Unnerved, he looked back over his shoulder. “You should have packed me one of those sun shirts.”

“Pfft. Those styles are atrocious, nothing my stuck-up little Irvington would wear.”

“Then you should have had me a couple made.”

Reddington snorted; Ressler shivered as cold lotion hit the sun-heated skin of his back. “I reserved some time for us to go SCUBA diving later this afternoon,” the criminal commented, his hands sweeping circles across Ressler’s back. “Not ideal, going in the afternoon, I will admit, but it’s when they could set us up with a private, figured you might be more comfortable with that.”

Ressler licked is lip. Was Reddington back in indulgent boyfriend mode? Was this part of the game, the cover? “I, umm, I’ve never...”

“I know you haven’t, Donny” - and _Donny_ , of course, none of this meant anything, that was right, the way it needed to be - “but it’s easy, you’ll pick it up in no time.”

“That’s not what I’ve heard about diving...”

“You’re good with your body, Don. You’ll be fine.”

He threw another curious glance back at Reddington - because what was he talking about? “I trip over my own feet these days.”

“Only because you were All-American for wrestling, not something practical, like judo or krav. Turn around.”

Ressler complied.

Reddington’s face was loose, unreadable, as he poured more sunscreen into his hand, palming it a little before sweeping it across the younger man’s chest and shoulders. “I know a lovely MMA place in DC. Dembe teaches there sometimes, when he thinks I’m not paying attention, as if I wouldn’t notice him taking part time employment somewhere else. I’ve checked it out, though, very good, if you’re into that sort of thing, which given your track record so far, you probably should be...”

Sighing, Ressler toned him out, eyes lifting over his shoulder to the flawless blue sky above them. He couldn’t remember the last time he’s seen skies this clean; certainly not in DC, with its smog and the gray humidity that rolled off the ocean in the summers, the stench that rose from the sewers that everyone tried to pretend wasn’t there; the rot, the humid rot that...

“Do you smell barbecue?” Reddington asked, and the hands on his skin were gone.

+++++

Lunch ,it turned out, was indeed barbecue, a huge spread of studiously impromptu, Caribbean-scented dishes spread out on wide tables in the palm grove, near the island’s one spit, where the ship had moored. Couples and groups were scattered across a dozen shady picnic tables, laughing and eating, and Reddington steered them away from the noisiest of it. 

Ressler could still see - feel - eyes on his back, and he hated it. Back in college, during a bad break-up, one of his girlfriends had derisively refer to him as “conventionally handsome.” It had cut. The blond hair - strawberry, back when he was a kid, darker now - didn’t help him any there. Conventionally attractive. He’d never liked drawing attention to himself, never particularly cared either way about his looks, wore his hair like he did because Audrey had liked it, nothing more.

And for Reddington to just label him gay in front of an entire shipful of people... 

“What’s wrong, Donny? Don’t like the jerk?”

Ressler startled, realizing he’d stopped with a bite of chicken halfway to his mouth, and shook his head, laying his fork aside. “No, it’s delicious.”

The other man nodded, sipping at his beer. His hand found Donny’s thigh under the table. “A bit too much sun, then, this morning?”

“No, it’s not that either.” He glanced around, not sure how to put it into words, if he even should, to this man. “I don’t like being stared at.”

“Well, you are the prettiest boy on the ship, Donny.”

“People are staring at me, Raymond,” he shot back, grinding the word as much as he could, “because they think I’m a twink.”

“At your age? Hardly. Now, when you were twenty...”

“I’m serious! Why this, why like this?”

“I...” Reddington said.

And then that hand on his thigh dug in, nails squeezing down.

Ressler barely had time to look up.

“Red! I thought that was you! Didn’t realize you were on board!”

It was the captain, the same lean, thin-faced man who’d given a humorous speech about sea turtles at the morning brief, and Reddington’s face, for some reason, had gone the kind of gray that couldn’t be faked. 

“Raymond?” he asked sharply.

The older man seemed to shake himself, and stood, offering his hand to the captain and clapping him warmly on the shoulder. “Marc, Jesus, it’s been a long time. Had no idea you were on this little cruise.”

“I just got hired on a few weeks ago. This is my first cruise, lots of fun so far,” the captain replied, a Louisiana drawl in his words, obviously ill at ease, and eyed Ressler suspiciously. “And this is...”

“Oh, where are my manners?” Reddington laughed, more than a little forced, and bade Ressler to stand with a wave of his hand. “Donny, this is Marc Baudon, old classmate from Annapolis, and Marc, this is Donald Irvington, a, uhh, good friend of mine.”

“Friend, huh?” the captain said, but shook Ressler’s hand anyway. “Pleased to meet you, Donny.”

“Likewise.”

“So the rumors are true, then, about you and...”

“The past is the past, Marc,” Reddington shot back, icy for a moment, before laughing again and settling back down with his beer. He had a way of sitting in chairs as if they were thrones, Ressler had noticed; he had never noticed just how effective a tool it was against others. The captain, Baudon, went from irritated to completely off balance almost immediately. “I thought you would have retired by now, old friend. What are you still doing in a uniform?”

“Retired last year. Civilian life didn’t suit me, though, siting around the house getting fat. Here, they pay me to sail.”

“Must be nice...”

“It is,” he said, and flashed them both a huge smile. “But I do need to go say hello to the other guests, so if you gentlemen will excuse me?”

Reddington, tense, hand tight around his beer, just nodded.

Ressler waited until the man was out of sight.

“What’s up his ass?”

“When he knew me, I was engaged. To a woman.”

He bit back the obvious retort - _the woman you abandoned, right?_ “But you’re on edge, too.”

“He’s Creole, frighteningly polite, those bastards, until they stab you in the back. I think it’s the French in them.”

“Doesn’t explain why he hates you.”

“He put me through Basic,” Reddington said, a novel’s worth of story behind those few simple words. “He doesn’t need a reason.”

Ressler went back to his own beer, considering. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard you talk about your military time before.”

“And you’re unlikely to hear it again. That part of my life is over, Agent Ressler. I have no desire to revisit the past.” He reached across the table, patting Ressler’s hand, but his eyes were far away. “Finish your drink, Donny. We go diving at three.”

+++++

That night, after dinner, when Reddington was still in the shower, Ressler took the criminal’s sat phone out onto the balcony and dialled a number he’d committed to memory long ago, but never used.

It picked up on the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Malik.”

“Ressler, how did you get this...”

“Look, Meera, I need you to run a background check for me. It’s the skipper of the boat we’re on, name Marc Baudon. Get me a picture, too, I need a face.”

“Ressler...”

“He’s supposedly an old classmate of Reddington’s.”

She was quiet for a moment. “I’ll go to Annapolis myself, pull the hard-copy records myself. No telling what kind of game he could be playing with this.”

“I agree, thank you.”

“Donald.”

“Yeah?”

“You’re not in Puerto Rico, are you?”

He hesitated. Cooper was probably going nuts right now, probably hunting them down across the Caribbean, and for whatever reason, . “You should get rid of the phone you’re using.”

“Roger that,” she replied, and the line went dead.

He stayed outside for a few more minutes, staring out over the moonswept waves. His body ached from too much sun, skin holding that heat and radiating it back on him, the kind of pain was wasn’t quite unpleasant until you started thinking about it. His shoulders were the worst, prickly and hot, stiffening, and he rolled them helplessly. 

The dive had been worth it, though. Silent, floating above the kind of coral you only ever saw in those Attenborough nature documentaries, a fury of life and color all around and underneath, a freedom of movement never found on land. 

Audrey would have loved it, Ressler had thought, but Reddington had just taken his hand and pulled him away to show him the cracks near the sand where octopus were hiding, and for a moment, he had forgotten all about her.

He wasn’t sure what any of that meant.

It was cool now, and dark, and quite beautiful, and Ressler could have stayed in that moment forever, a strange little bubble of contentment, in the maelstrom his life had become.

He didn’t quite hear the footsteps behind him, but he felt the cool body press against his own, hands stroking down his sides and across his waist.

“Come to bed, Donny,” Reddington murmured in his ear. “Want your cock in my mouth.”

He shook his head. “You don’t even like me, Reddington.”

“And you’re still in love with your dead girlfriend. She still the first thing you think about, when you wake up in the morning?”

“Red...”

“What I’m saying, Donny, is that it doesn’t matter. None of this matters.”

His own hand slid from the rail.

He let himself be pulled inside.

Falling.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tagging for violence here - Reddington is not a nice man. And Ressler's not really in a good mental space right now. 
> 
> Also, sorry about the long delay for this. Hopefully, the next chapter won't take me as long!

“So what were you able to find out about him?”

“Drove down to Annapolis myself today. The story checks out, Donald. He’s Class of ’76.”

Ressler tapped his pen against the pad he’d brought with him on the day’s shore call, little notes drawn out in felt-tip, trying to organize his thoughts. It was a pleasant enough bar he’d found, a decent place to pass the afternoon, had he not been working on a case. It was set up high, on the second floor of a crumbling old colonial building, palm-leaf fans batting a reluctant breeze over the sticky tables and out towards the ship, south, down in the harbor. Not too many people had found the place, the last left ten minutes ago, and he was, finally, alone.

It would have been a nice place to photograph.

Maybe he could come back, do something like this again. No Reddington, no anybody. Worn khakis and old t-shirts and invisible to everyone, just like he always was, was meant to be.

Fuck, he hated this. Standing out like this. Having people look at him with... with pity and shock and surprise and curiosity. He’d never wanted anyone to be curious about him. He’d been the only boy in his home town who had a prayer of getting out, and then some hick oddity in college, and at the FBI, he’d hoped, he’d hoped, for something more. Respect, maybe. He couldn’t remember anymore.

Not that it mattered.

It wasn’t supposed to be this.

And something occurred to him, in that moment, that had never occurred to him before. The FBI, his task force, in all their investigative efforts had never, not once...

“Have you ever talked to any of his classmates? In all of this?”

“Have...” but Malik was sharp; she knew all the games, and he loved that about her. The way she caught herself and instantly switched gears. “Donny, you know I’m not supposed to talk with you about this.”

“I’m dating an international criminal honey, we’re both doing business with him, do not tell me a clever girl like you didn’t do your due diligence.”

There’s a pause, while she deciphers that, reads everything into and out of it. Fuck. Well. Cover and all that, and he’s on a borrowed sat phone. No telling who might be listening in. 

“I haven’t interviewed his classmates. The military had a lot of those records sealed, and it appears that Reddington paid off everyone else.”

“Is that the official story?”

“From what I was told, yes.”

He licked his lip, thinking. 

“Are you still in Annapolis?”

“Why’s that matter?”

“These military guys, they’re big on tradition, especially back then. Class of ’80 was the first with women. Raymond’s class, '78, would have been old-school, tight-knit, aggressive. These are boys who grew up watching the Vietnam War on the nightly news and signed up anyway.”

Another pause. “I’ve worked with a few Academy grads, Donny, and I wouldn’t say...”

“Those are Academy grads in the CIA. The guys who stayed straight? No way they’d take bribes from one of their own who turned his back on the country.”

“How do you guess that?”

“Have any of your colleagues ever dared refer to America as a foreign country?”

She was quiet. Probably typing. “Donny, you’re reaching.”

He shook his head, rubbing his temple. There had to be something; there was always something. He knew how thin the paper trial was, how much of it Reddington had set fire to himself, over the years, but this was something with potential, something new, and he was kicking himself for not thinking of it sooner. 

“There might be hard copy records at the library. Not anything official, company lore, an article in the school paper, something obscure enough for the DoD or Red’s people missed when they were censoring his records, anything that would help.” He looked out over the town, beyond the bar; it was framed perfectly by the worn edges of railing. A good sepia shot would...

“Are you doing alright, Don? You sound a little distracted.”

He licked his lip, and decided to stick with the cover. Just in case - if anybody was listening, if Meera might be able to tease out what was going on. She was smart like that. “Just trying to figure out my man’s game, Meera. It’s not every day he drops everything to take me on a vacation.”

“Maybe he’s trying to prove that you’re more than just some number to him, Donny, more than his hot piece of arse from State.”

He ignored the way the words cut; yeah, she was good. “You know I don’t matter to him one iota,” he replied, and then smiled. “And you think I have a hot ass, huh?”

“If you weren’t gay, Donny, I’d climb you like a tree,” Malik chuckled back.

Ressler laughed. She was married, as far as he knew, to another CIA officer off doing a tour in some unpronounceable Middle Eastern city. “If I was into women, honey, I might take you up on that.”

“Oh would you now?” she teased, and for a moment...

But there, coming up the stairs, is Reddington, and he’s all out of time.

“I’ve got company. I’ll call you back.”

And Reddington took the phone away from him and sank into the chair opposite in one smooth move.

Ressler’s gut clenched up; trouble, he thought for sure, was coming. But the older man just smiled a smile that was all teeth, and tucked the phone into his jacket pocket.

“Nobody is as stoic as you pretend to be, Donny.”

Taken aback by the strange statement, Ressler couldn’t do anything but stare. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you never talk about yourself,” Reddington said, as if this was a conversation they had every day, an old argument dragged out now for the umpteenth time. “You must have something you enjoy doing outside of work.”

“Why? Like what?” he asked, unsure if this was part of the game, the cover, or not. “Beer and football with the guys?”

“Or collecting paper clips, building model trains... don’t take offense at this, but you’ve always struck me as the kind of guy who would have a model train set in his garage.”

“Well, I don’t. Don’t even have a garage.” He frowned. “You know that.”

Reddington ignored him. “So, nothing? Truly, nothing? You wake up, work out, maintain those delicious abs of yours, go to work, push paperwork for the State Department like a good little boy, go home, go to sleep? That’s the great life of Donald Irvington? Nothing but his suit and his misguided sense of duty?”

It was soft. Sweet. Almost as if it really mattered to him, and it took Ressler a second to realize that it wasn’t his own last name that’d left the older man’s lips. 

The realization was more disappointing than it should have been.

“I do you, don’t I?” he snapped. 

It pulled a laugh from Reddington. His eyes had always been a strange mixture of green and gray, and in the shade of the bar, Ressler didn’t know what he was seeing in them as they stared down at him. “Doing me? That’s your only hobby?”

He practically had to bite him tongue, such was the effort of holding himself back. “I...”

But Reddington was standing again, careless and loose.

“What do you say we get out of here, hmm, Donny?  Ship leaves in a few hours, I'd like to be settled back aboard well before that happens.  This place is giving me hives. Tourist towns, you know,” Reddington said, lip curling down in obvious disgust.  "Little playgrounds made for wealthy Westerners.  Quite vulgar when you consider that the chicken you had for lunch cost more than most of the locals make in a month."  He made a little gesture, bidding the younger man up.

Donald snorted, but joined the older man. He tucked a couple of bills under the ash tray for his beer, adjusting his thin silk blazer as he did so, tugging the sleeves back down to his wrists.  Reddington had thrust it at him this morning, out of the small closet that was stuffed with all those truly heinous clothes.  Today's outfit had also come with a hat, one Ressler didn't recognize from his bag, neutral enough that he could probably wear it on other days, and he wasn't sure if it was a gesture of kindness or condescension on the part of the criminal.  Had made the day's exploring a little easier at least.  

Even if the only pair of sunglasses in his bag were - Ressler was positive - a woman's model.

He caught Reddington watching him, though, that sneer turned to a smirk; he suddenly felt very self-conscious.  "What are you looking at?"

"Oh, nothing much," the older man replied, honey-smooth, one hand coming to rest on the small of his back.  "You look quite nice today, Donny.  You should wear hats more often, suits that pre-war vibe you so carefully cultivate."

"Cultivate?"  Ressler laughed, short and humorless, thinking about the dresser full of old lacrosse sweats and plaid work-shirts he had at home, relics of a past he wasn't quite ready to let go of.  "Clearly, you've never seen me in my apartment."

The words were a mistake, and he regretted it instantly.  Reddington's smile turned wicked.  Shit.  That was flirting.  Probably. "No, I haven't," Reddington practically purred, tugging him close, close enough to wrap both his hands around his waist.  "We should remedy that when we get you home, don't you think?"

Shit.  Shit.  Definitely flirting.  He could feel the blood pounding in his ears, smell the near-dizzying scent of a very, very good cologne - was Reddington serious?  "Behave, Raymond," and he pushed the older man off.  "You've far from earned the privilege."

"Maybe I'll just install some cameras," Reddington agreed, falling into step behind him on the stairs.  "Sounds like fun, doesn't it?  I bet you'd put on a wonderful show for me, you, Donny?  Walking around your place half-dressed, moaning so prettily with another man's lips wrapped around your cock..."  He paused as they hit the landing halfway down, Ressler turning around to stare at him, aghast.  Reddington adjusted his own hat a little, his hands finding the younger man's waist again.  "Don't lie to me, Donny.  I know I'm not the only ass you've plowed in the last six months."

Despite the sticky heat of the equatorial day, Ressler felt cold.  Yeah, sure, he went to gay bars sometimes - but only sometimes, hardly ever, no more than once a month, maybe, if that, when he _needed_ but couldn't stand the thought of asking for... again from...

Women, he'd tried.  Right after that first time with Reddington, he'd tried.

All he'd thought about was Audrey.

Men, though...

"I don't bring anyone home," he snapped.  "Last _person_ I had in my bed was..." and he bit it back.

Those gray-green eyes shifted, giving nothing away.  Fingers caressed his cheek.  "I know who it was.  And I understand, Donny, I really do.  More than you know."

"This the part where you tell me that we're not so different?  Give the big villain speech?"

"Oh, Donny, what makes you think I'm the bad guy in this particular situation?" he laughed, and pressed him further back against the rail, brushing their lips together.  "I was followed here, Agent Ressler," he whispered, almost too low for the younger man to hear, "so now would be a very, very good time for you to shove me off and storm away.  Do not head for the harbor."

"Red..."

"Do it, now."

He pulled back, but Ressler couldn't move, caught up in a swell of something he didn't understand.  All of this, he hated all of this, and yet...

"You are such an asshole, Raymond!" he snarled, with more rage than he perhaps really needed, or even meant to use.  "Yes, absolutely, let's talk about that!"

"Donny, there's no need to be a bitch!" 

"Yes, Raymond, yes there is!" he shot back, reaching the bottom of the stairs, throwing up his hands, trying to think of what would piss this Donny Irvington off.  What would piss him off in some place as lovely as this.  "Let's take a cruise together, you said, I'll leave work at home, you said..."

"Donny, you know it's not so easy for me..."

He shook his head, storming up the street of old, crumbling buildings, towards the distant green hills.  It was the poorer area, this, segueing into the local quarters, away from the tourist shine, and despite the bubbling anger, Ressler could feel eyes on him.  Yeah, they had a tail, and the man was closer.  He turned down the oldest, narrowest street he could find, a split-second glance that he hoped would work, continuing his rant as the shadows fell around them.  

"And sure, you're allowed to take off and do whatever the fuck it is that you do, but I'm not allowed to find some nice bar and get a beer and call a friend back home, who will, by the way, talk to me when you fucking _won't_ , and somehow, wanting some actual human contact makes me the bitch here?  I swear, Raymond, when we get back, we are done, done, I don't care how good you are at sucking..."

Then two things happened he barely registered before they were over.

One was a knife at his back.

The second, well...

By the time he turned around, Reddington had already taken care of it.

And there their tail was, slumped and bleeding on the ground, groaning pathetically as the master criminal searched him for weapons.  

Reddington handed Ressler a small revolver he tugged out of the man's waistband with a wordless look, and the FBI agent figured he was probably supposed to say something.

"And now you want to get me shot up?  The fuck is wrong with you, Raymond?"

The guy muttered something, words thick with contempt, and Ressler only caught one word - _mariposa_.

"Yes, well, this _mariposa_ just kicked your ass, my friend.  Donny, help me with this human filth."

He spat.  All over Ressler's shirt.  "Fuck you both, fucking faggots," he growled back in heavily accented English.

Ressler rolled his eyes and kneeled down, taking a firm grip on the man's collar and jerking him up roughly.  "Yeah, save it.  Where do you want him, Red?"

But the other man just arched an eyebrow, his thoughts practically audible - _play your role, Donny_.  He held back a groan, adding, "this was a two hundred dollar shirt.  You are going to get me a new one."

“Of course, darling.” Apparently satisfied, Reddington nodded towards the building behind them, and casually - how in the fuck he did that, Ressler would never know - kicked in the door.  "After you, please.”

Ressler dragged the guy inside, into a small reeking space that, once, had been some kind of grocery.  There were a few shelves, a freestanding freezer with the door broken in, a chair in a back corner that Reddington dragged front and center, standing behind.  He patted it, and Ressler threw the guy into it.  But before he could ask his assailant a single question, there was a quiet little thudding noise, and the guy screamed.

"That was your left lung collapsing," Reddington said - again, casual, always casual, and it was fucking terrifying, watching him circle around to the man's front, calm and collected as a lion in front of a crippled gazelle.  "It won't kill you, not right away, but we should probably get you some medical attention here shortly.  Wouldn't you agree, Donny?"

He didn't know what to say.  He'd seen Reddington kill before, back when he was still hunting him, during task force ops, but he'd never seen the man torture anyone.  What the point of this was, he had no idea.  "Was that necessary?"

Reddington squatted down in front of the man, whose eyes had gone wide, wild.  Blood was still oozing down his face, nose likely broken, and Ressler knew that expression.  It was the look of a man whose survival instinct was about to outweigh his better sense.  The look of the already dead.

"See, my lover here, he works for the State Department.  The government pays him to pretend like people aren't really so bad, underneath all those silly cultural differences and socioeconomic disparities.  Me?  I believe Hobbes was right."

The man's eyes got bigger, coughing out the words.  "Wh-what... what you talkin'g about, m-man?"

"I collapsed one of your lungs.  You can still save the other.  Just tell me who on the ship is on Camio's payroll?"

"I... _yo no se..._ argh!"

The captured knife was standing straight out from that straining chest, the man shaking in pain, Reddington holding him down, hand tightening over his throat.  Disgust overwhelming his better sense, Ressler stepped in, jaw tight.  

"Reddington, I can't let you..."

"You can shut up, or you can step outside, Donny.  Do not..."

Swallowing hard, he pressed the barrel of the gun to the base of Reddington's neck.  "You're not going to torture somebody to death in front of me."

Reddington stopped at that, looking back over his shoulder with a strange, almost curious expression.  

Then he laughed, standing back up straight, like he didn't have a care in the world.  "Oh Donny, you would be a treasure to dime store thrillers.”  He looked back at their assailant, who was obviously caught somewhere between disbelief and mortal pain.  "See, he never fails to say what's on his mind, even when he doesn't need to.  It's really rather cute."

"Just ask him what you need to know," Ressler said, biting out the words; the air was thick in there, oppressive and tight, and the sweat blossoming on his ruined shirt was mixing with the blood, a terrible, sickly feeling.  "But I can't let you do this."

"You see what I mean?" Reddington laughed again to the stricken man in the chair.  "So cliche."

And, before Ressler could stop him, Reddington twisted the knife and back in, plunging it up to the hilt in the man's heart.

The only thing he could think, as his gun-arm lowered in shock, as Reddington took the revolver away and tucked it back into his own pocket, was how very little the wound was bleeding.  He must have said that out loud, though, because Reddington clapped him on the shoulder, kissed his cheek, and wiped his hands on the already-ruined shirt.  

"There'd be a lot more if I pulled out the knife.  But come on, let's get this tragically stained thing off you."

Wooden, still staring at the dead man, Ressler sloughed off his jacket, Reddington taking it without comment.  But his fingers were shaking too badly for him to undo the buttons strung through the Egyptian cotton, and it was almost a relief, to have Reddington press up behind him, encircle him, and unbutton him himself.

"It's okay, Donny," he whispered as he worked, kissing the back of the younger man's neck as he did so.  "He probably didn't have much to say about it anyway.  Camio wouldn't trust the hired help."

"Right."

+++++

One of the things Ressler simply could not understand about the cabin they were staying in was how the shower was so goddamn nice.  Better than the shower in his apartment, way better than anything they had at any of the FBI-facility gyms he'd frequented over the years.  

Clean, not so cramped, with a pounding spray of endlessly hot water.

At the moment, it was the only thing in the world he wanted to think about.

"Donny!  You here?"

Shifting his weight to one arm, caught a glimpse of Reddington dropping a package on the bed in their cabin.  Groaning internally, he called back, "you can hear the fucking shower's on, can't you?"

"Well, don't come out!"

"No problem there," he grumbled to himself, and hung his head again, eyes shut, letting the water sluice through his hair and down his chest and back.  It was hot, almost scalding, especially against the sunburns from the day before, but the ache it set in his chest was a relief.  Fuck.  He was so tired of watching people die in front of him...

A rush of cool air interrupted his reverie, though, and there Reddington was, hat and shoes banished, hands working his buttons open.  Ressler could still see that oppressive little room, those hands on his own buttons in the near-dark, and he had to look away.  

"What, Donny, you spent all afternoon bitching about how we don't spend enough time together, and now you want to play coy?"

"Fuck you."

The criminal's shirt fluttered to the floor.  "That sounds like a lovely idea."

"I meant leave me alone," he muttered, but was unable to summon any anger to color the words.  Ressler was drained, lethargy taking over as the water soothed the shock away.

"Leave you alone?"  His pants and boxer briefs joined the heap, and his footfalls were quiet on the tile.  Ressler moved aside a bit, as the shower stall door opened, not protesting - but hardly responding - as the older man stepped in beside him.  A hand slid up his chest, cool against his heat-reddened skin, and Ressler just closed his eyes.  "I think I've left you alone long enough, haven't I?"

"After this trip, I never want to see you again," he said, honest, not giving two shits, in that moment, if Reddington lost this cruel little game he was playing with some mystery opponent.  "I'm done."

"No you're not," Reddington murmured, and that hand came to rest on his throat, squeezing just enough to get his attention.  His voice hardened.  "Donald, look at me."

Forcing himself to open his eyes, the younger man just shook his head.  "What?"

"I said, look at me.  I want you to _look_."

Taking a deep breath of humid air, Ressler did as he was told; let his eyes fall down and back up the other man's body, taking in, in just a quick glimpse, every scar, every tattoo, every imperfection, every identifying feature he'd once read about in a stack of case files longer than his arm.  Reddington was not a handsome man, a decade past his prime and obviously the product of a life hard-lived and over-celebrated.  But Ressler had never been much of one for beauty; age was what fascinated him, history, the stories of things he'd never see or experience for himself, and he'd never really thought about what that meant before.

Still wasn't sure.

Wasn't sure why he was even thinking about it, and...

It occurred to him, then, that he hadn't thought about Audrey since Reddington had shown up at that bar.  Not even in watching that man die.

The prospect scared him.  

Reddington smirked triumphantly, stretching catlike against the wall of the shower, fingers lazily gliding across the younger man’s chest.

“You’re the one who wanted to take this vacation, darling. You and me, have some time to talk...”

Why they were continuing the argument from before, Ressler didn’t know. But it was really starting to piss him off. “Can’t do that if you keep disappearing on me, Raymond.”

“Well, here I am,” Reddington replied, and, reaching across him, turned the shower off. “And here you are. So let’s talk.”

Ressler glowered, and shoved past him, grabbing for a towel. “You honestly want to talk? You? Mister... international man of mystery?”

“I believe that is what one does with one’s lovers. Gets to know them, showers them with little gestures of affection, treats them well.”

“You don’t treat me well.”

“I can’t spoil you rotten twenty-four-seven. Who would push papers for me at State?”

“Is that all I am to you? Utility?”

“That’s all most people are to me, Donny,” Reddington replied immediately, serious, and cast an appraising eye over the younger man as he swept the excess water from his body. 

Drinking in his silence. Finally nodding. 

“But the fact that you won’t even protest that, tell me you’re worth more, I find fascinating.”

He bristled. “You do a damn good job of reminding me just how worthy I am in your eyes on a near daily basis.”

“Yet here we are,” Reddington murmured, stepping out of the showed, his hands finding their way back to the younger man’s hips. “So what is it, Donny? Is you self-esteem really that bad? Or do you just enjoy being used?”

His mouth went dry. “Neither.”

Reddington leaned in close. “Bullshit,” he whispered, and kissed his cheek, grabbing his ass fully in the process. Their groins brushed together, the high pile of the towel only enhancing the feeling of half-hard flesh against his own, and Ressler moaned involuntarily at the sensation. He didn’t understand this, not at all; he’d never been attracted to men before, never, not even those few fumbling hand-jobs back at the frat in college really qualified. That had been stupid, drunk shit, relief and nothing more. This, this was.... 

“Raymond...”

“Would you like me to prove it to you? What a good little bitch you really are?”

And that was about when Ressler’s frayed control snapped entirely.

When he grabbed Reddington under his arm, and hualed him bodily out of the bathroom, almost losing his balance in his haste, and throwing the other man ass-down on the bed, only a few steps away.

“Good little bitch?” he demanded, tearing the towel from his body as fast as he could, kicking Reddington’s legs apart, anger sparking hot as his blood rushed south. “Is that what you think I am, Raymond? Some fucking push-over?”

“That’s what you think you are, darling,” Reddington drawled back, and hooked a leg behind his. “That’s all you were, first time I saw you. All you’ll ever be.”

“Shut up...”

“Some little drone, doing his job, a slave to the system, a complete disgrace to your apparent Viking heritage...”

"Shut up!” Ressler practically yelled, desperate now, aroused and enraged and unable to get the image of Reddington holding that knife out of his mind. “What’s it take to shut you the fuck up?!”

Reddington, as if by magic, produced a condom. 

Flung it at him.

“It’s not an offer,” he said.

And Ressler rocked forward, dragging them both into a kiss that was all teeth and no tenderness at all.

"There you are," Reddington said, laughing, breathless, nails digging into his back, legs coming up to wrap around his own.  "There's my good little boy."

Ressler, in that moment, wanted to stop.

Be he couldn’t.

So he didn’t.

+++++

Later, much later, Ressler came to, finding himself staring at the dark beams of the ceiling, almost shivering, the last of the afternoon's warmth fading from his body.  The port hole was thrown open, the heavy scent of their combined efforts washing from his skin by that washcloth, discarded on the floor, and the cool of the evening breeze.  Reddington wasn't with him, tucked instead into the padded built-in sofa, a book in one hand, cigar in the other.  The criminal hadn't bothered to dress, one of those luxurious white bathrobes wrapped around him instead but not tied.

Seemed too pure for him.

The bruises across his collar bones, trailed up his neck, were the same size as the younger man's lips.

Ressler was still very, very tired.

"Baudon's little brother was in my company," Reddington said then, not looking up from his book as he turned the page, cigar ash scattering on the robe.  "At Annapolis.  My roommate, actually, for a couple of years."

He frowned.  "Like I'm really going to..." and then he caught himself.   _Cameras._  "Umm, I didn't know that."

"Marc's never forgiven me for, well, middie boys do stupid things, my darling. Think they’re invincible, until they learn they’re not.”  Another page turn.  "You can see the result of that for yourself."

"Yeah, I..."

"If you want to know about my past, Donny, you can always just ask, instead of calling your little friends back in Washington and having them run background checks.  That's what people in a relationship do, you know.  Talk to each other."

Pushing up on an elbow, turning towards the end of the bed, Ressler only felt more confused.  And he resented being in this position, having to filter everything he was saying, make it sound like he cared about this man, wanted him.  "You lie about everything, Re-Raymond.  How was I supposed to know you'd tell me the truth?"

"Trust is an important part of a relationship, too."  Those gray-green eyes fixed on him, over the top of the book.  "Isn't that why you wanted to come here together?  Build our relationship, or whatever the fuck it is you civilians do to make yourselves feel better about your empty little lives?"

That stung, although he had no idea why.  "Is that what we have now?  A relationship?"  And as soon as the words were out of his mouth, he realized he didn't know who was saying them - Irvington, or Ressler.

A moment passed in silence, and then Reddington laid the book aside, sliding out of the comfortable little nook, coming towards him.  "Oh, Donny, you silly boy.  You have no idea how desperately fond of you I am, have you?" He sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching for Ressler.  Confused, the younger man let himself be pulled down, so his head was in the criminal's lap, his still-damp hair carded by the criminal's fingers.  "Now, answer my question from earlier."

He looked up, brow furrowed.  "What question?"

Reddington smiled.  "Your hobby.  What my Donny does for fun when I'm not around.  At least, what he does for fun with his clothes on."

Heat creeping back into his face, Ressler shook his head, trying to come up with something, anything, that wasn't the truth.  And fuck, he hated this kind of ad-libbing.  He was no good at it, never had been.  "Photography," he finally admitted, quiet, ashamed.  His fingers dug into the robe half-covering Reddington's thighs.  "Used to do a lot of my own film development, old school, you know?"

"Not much room for such things in a DC apartment, is there?"

"Yeah, haven't had a dark room since school," he sighed, remembering the old lab in the basement of the arts college.  "I mostly just do digital stuff now.  Film's not worth it if I can't develop it myself."

Reddington made a noncommittal little noise, and just kept stroking his hair.

+++++

In the morning, there was a wrapped package waiting for them at their breakfast table, the rich red bow on top made of silk ribbon, the ends trailing ghost-like off his chair.  Ressler frowned at Reddington, who just shrugged and said he was going for waffles.

Ressler stared at it, alone, for a moment, before undoing the ribbon and neatly snapping the impeccable folds of paper open with his butter knife.

And if he hadn't been surprised before...

"You like it, darling?" Reddington asked, setting his laden plate of waffles and fresh fruit compote down easily, pouring them both a cup of coffee.

"You got this for me?"

"Yes."

"Before we left the States?"

"Of course."

"But how..."

"Like there's anything I don't know about you already, Donny? But I’m touched that you told me anyway.”

Ressler didn't respond; his fingers were shaking again as he tried to undo the seals on the glossy cardboard packaging, before just giving up entirely, unsure if he should even touch it.  If this was finally the thing that would do him him, the price of his soul.  

Reddington, chuckling, leaned over the table and lifted a hand.  "It's a Hasselblad HV, all the options, all for you.  I even had them skin it in a more generic housing, no trademarks, so you wouldn't get in trouble at work.  Wouldn't want somebody thinking you were taking bribes, now would we?"

"This is a twelve thousand dollar camera..."

"So?  It's better than that crappy little Nikon SLR you've got now."  And the criminal kissed the back of Ressler's hand, before setting it down with a pat, and digging into his waffle.  "I look forward to seeing what you capture with it."


	5. Chapter 5

"Mister Irvington, wasn't it?  Good to see you again."

Ressler caught the drawl on the last word, tapping a finger on the salt-crusted rail, loathe to turn around.  

It was still morning, the pink of dawn faded from the sky but the light still sunrise-sharp over the waters, filtered by the clouds gathering on the far blue horizon, playing over a group of small, treeless atolls they were sailing past.  His new camera hooked around his wrist, the agent had been playing with the manual exposure function.  The images on the little viewscreen with amazing.  He knew he shouldn't be excited about the gift, but Reddington had been clever, presenting him with it in front of the entire dining room; Ressler couldn't exactly reject it, could he?

He'd have to give it back at the end of the op.  He knew that.  Cooper would skin him alive if he found out he'd kept something so expensive.

Still.  The thing fit perfect in his hand, the shutter action butter-smooth, and it had been a long, long time since he'd taken out any of his equipment and just _played_.

Felt good.  So good he couldn’t even hate Red for it.

"Captain," he acknowledged, splitting the difference and keeping his eyes on the sea.  "That was an entertaining briefing this morning.  Any of those anecdotes you told us true?"

"Half the fun is making shit up," Baudon replied, and leaned on his elbows against the rail next to him, looking him over.  Ressler didn't like the judgment he felt in other man's gaze.  "Didn't see your boyfriend there."

"I'm hardly Raymond's keeper," he said, letting his voice turn icy.  

"No, nobody ever could make Red do anything he didn't want to do.  No matter who it hurt."

Huh.  Ressler didn't place much faith in profiling, but he did remember the analyses they'd given him, when he'd first taken the case.   _Subject's military records indicate a high degree of empathy..._

Something had happened to the man, he was convinced.  Whether that was in the military, or after, nobody seemed to know.  So much nobody knew about the infamous Raymond Reddington.  The FBI agent in him had always found that suspicious - somebody, _somebody_ , always knew.

"So he hasn't changed much," Ressler shot back, and leaned back on one hand.  "Is there anything I can do for you, Captain?"

The Creole officer's face twisted briefly, settling into an unpleasant neutrality.  "I think a man should know what he's getting involved with."

"I know what I'm involved with..."

"Do you?"

"I've never asked Raymond about his business, Captain, and I never will."

"Maybe you should."

"Do you think I care?  He's a good fuck and he doesn't lie about the shit that matters, why should I care about some petty grudge one of his old cadre has against him?"

The captain's fingers dug into the railing; direct hit.  Ressler smiled grimly, even as disgust churned in his gut.  "Or is that what you're pissed about?  That you've got a couple of faggots on your ship?"

"I've never in my life given any heed to what a man does in his own bunk," Baudon replied, slow and measured; the FBI agent was put in mind of what Reddington had said about politeness and backstabbing.  "I'd thank you not to accuse me of such things."  And he hesitated.  "You just seem like a nice boy.  Too nice to be caught up in that one's wake."

Ressler wiped a spec of sea spray off his camera's lens, and slipped the cap back on.  "And what, exactly, makes you think I'm a nice boy?"

Their skipper didn't answer right away, and it occurred to Ressler, then, that Baudon was probably serious in his concern for him.  Which was, well, kind of strange.  And he nodded.

"He betrayed all of you, didn't he?  Becoming... being what he is?"

The captain made a little noise, deep in his throat.  "After what happened to his family?  Honestly, I'm not surprised he swore off women for good."

Ressler frowned.  He’d read those interview transcripts, the old case notes, until he had the damn things memorized.  Reddington's wife had packed up his daughter and moved to Vancouver after he walked out on them, refused to give a statement to anyone, not even the cops.  Hadn't gotten a damn thing in the divorce settlement, not even a percentage of his military retirement.  That had been voided when the FBI confirmed him as an international fugitive.  

"I see from your expression he didn't tell you about that."

No, Reddington had never mentioned his family, not even to Keen, from what he could gather. Ressler had never really had a chance to talk to any of the people close to Reddington; all those interviews were a matter of record, and the Bureau had denied his requests to dig further.

"Hardly.  She was his..." and he stopped, turning at the sound of footsteps marching towards them.  "Reddington.  How lovely to..."

"Keep your old-money, slave-owner hands off my boy, Baudon," Reddington snapped, hot, and Ressler raised an eyebrow over the captain's turned shoulder.  "Donny, please come away from the railing, if you would?  Wouldn't want to give the old bastard any ideas."

Baudon held his hands up, making room for Reddington to glide right past him and into Ressler's space.  Touching the younger man's cheek with an uncharacteristic gentleness, he came across as genuinely concerned for a change.  "You alright, baby?"

"You're addicted to drama, old man."

"Doesn't mean I'm going to trust my boy to this old fuck..."

"No harm's comin' to anyone on my boat," the captain said, obviously exasperated, and paused.  "Those years in subs really fucked you up, didn't they, Red?"

"Now really, Marc, I think we're better than throwing Air Force jokes at each other, don't you think?" Reddington replied without missing a beat, and wrapped an arm around Ressler's waist, kissing him on the cheek.

"You are going to have to tell me what his problem is," Ressler said.

"Water under the bridge, my dear,” he murmured in his ear, steering him deftly away from the skipper, back towards their room, “water under the bridge.  I'm far more interested in how your photos are turning out."

Ressler could still feel Baudon’s eyes on him.

What in the everloving fuck had passed between these two, back in the day?

+++++

The day was a slow one, with a noon port of call at a town that Reddington gave no indication of wanting to get off at.  Ressler had no desire to deal with those two women - or the captain, or anybody from the damn ship - out there in town by himself, either.

So they just didn’t get off with everyone else.

Reddington brought one of those old books up from the ship’s library, Ressler grudgingly pulled on those ridiculous swim shorts, the bartender was more than happy to whip them up something alcoholic and frozen, and the two of them took over one of the tiny swimming pools up on deck.  An hour so passed like that, the waiter coming up to swap out their drinks once - no, twice - the only sound the breeze in the half-furled sails above, both of them alone with their thoughts

The afternoon was warm, the drinks strong, and Ressler found himself almost falling asleep in the cool water of the shallow soaker pool, when fingers stroked through his wet hair.

“Having a good day, darling?” 

He lifted his cheek off his arm, squinting.  “Aren’t you going to get some sun?”

Reddington tensed.  “You’ve seen my back.”

“There’s nobody here.”

“True.”  The older man closed his book, laid it aside on one of the other white-painted lounge chairs, nailed to the upper deck.  Scooted closer, hand digging deeper into Ressler’s dark blond locks.  “It’s still sensitive.”

“I don’t care about it,” Ressler began, and stopped himself, wondering why he’d said that.  He rolled over onto his back, eyes up on the sails.  “Saw in it your dossier, long before I ever set eyes on you.”

Behind him, wood creaked, and Redding was sitting down on the top step of the little pool, sunglasses hanging low on his nose.  His gaze was accusatory, and Ressler looked around.  “What, everyone’s ashore and there aren’t any cameras out here, right?”  He reached back for his drink.  “What difference does it make?”

“I think we’re past dossiers at this point, Donny, don’t you think?”

Okay, maybe he’d had a little more to drink than he’d thought, because his hand didn’t quite make it to the sweating mug that was still half-full of his third margarita.  “Everything, Red, I learned everything I could about you.  Memorized every scrap of information the Bureau had, spent days on JWICS going through everything that mentioned you even in passing.  I _studied_ you, Reddington, down to the smallest detail, and I still have no fucking idea...”

But the older man just stood up, one of those unreadable expressions on his face.

And was gone, before Ressler could even ask what the hell it was he’d said.

+++++

Maybe he was a lot more drunk than he thought he was - Ressler almost tripped, scrambling out of the pool.  He shoved his feet into his flip-flops, forgetting all about his towel until it was too late to go back and get it, and rushed down to their room, hoping like hell...

Well, he wasn’t really sure.  What was he hoping for?  What did he even care?

Reddington wasn’t in the room.

He was, however, in the library that lay just outside their door, with its rich hand-carved bookcases and thick glass lamps, his pale green guayabera translucent with water around the hem.  His back was turned, and yeah, Ressler could see those scars.  Knotted, angry flesh.  He’d never wondered about it before, never thought about where those might have come from.

Was Reddington - the guy who’d casually killed a man only yesterday afternoon, and plenty more before that - actually touchy about that?

And it must have been the booze, but Ressler felt incredibly guilty about calling him out on it.  And he hesitated there, in the half-open French doors of the beautifully appointed Edwardian space, not sure what he could say, wondering...

“Well, don’t just stand there in your speedo and stare, Donald.  You’re dripping water all over the carpet.”

Frowning, he stepped inside, trying to come up with something to say, but the first thing that came out of his mouth - entirely without his permission - was.

“I don’t care about your scars.”

Those shoulders tensed, and Reddington turned around, head cocked.  “What do you mean, Agent Ressler?”

The sound of his real name from the older man’s lips sent a chill through the younger, although he couldn’t have said why.  Glancing back over his shoulder, making sure there was nobody listening in, he stepped fully into the room.  “Reddington...”

“I want to know, why you think I would care, what you think about my physical appearance.”

Ressler licked his lip, trying to come up with something he could offer, what he was even thinking.  His face was getting hot, and his hands were starting to shake, and he tried to tell himself it was just the alcohol, only the alcohol, all the alcohol, blood rushing south...

“I don’t, I...”

Reddington was there, in front of him, touching his face, and he was hard in his shorts, just from that.  Like this meant something, like this could mean something.  If it was just the game, cover, all the better, he could just fob it off on that, claim innocence.  

Couldn’t he?

Ressler wasn’t drunk enough to think that was anything other than bullshit, but he took it anyway.

Took it, along with a handful of the older man’s shirt, and leaned forward, pressing his mouth to Reddington’s.

Kissing wasn’t something they did.  Not often, anyway.  And it was strange.  Reddington’s lips were closed, the faintest hint of margarita and sea salt lingering there.  His body was taunt.  The whole thing...

Pulling back, Ressler’s face was burning.  He didn’t dare look at the older man, feeling suddenly - strangely - exposed.  “I’m gonna go,” he said quickly, turning around, hoping like hell he could get away from this before it blew up in his face, and...

“Donald.”

His hand froze on the door latch.  

“Donald, you have no idea what you’re asking for.”

Ressler ground his teeth.  “I know what you are, Red,” he muttered.  “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

Behind him, the library was quiet.

And then hands slid around his waist, lips brushing to the back of his neck, and Ressler closed his eyes, flinching, as Reddington brought their bodies together.

He was going to regret this - he knew that.  He already did.  He regretted the day he volunteered for the case; regretted all the times he could have walked away, and didn’t.  The night when Audrey begged him, with tears in her eyes and hreatbreak-rage in her voice, to stop _this stupid little quest before it destroys you!_   The time after Anslo, when Cooper gave him the option of backing out of the task force.  When...

Regrets were what they were.  

He had a lifetime full of them already.

In that moment, nothing in the world could have dragged him out from under the older man’s weight, bearing slowly, inexorably, down on him.

“It’s okay, Donny,” he murmured in his ear.  “It’s okay.”

Ressler took a deep breath.

Regrets.

What was one more?

Especially when, for the first time since Audrey’s death, the world had stopped spinning.

+++++

They barely made it back to the room. 

The library lay directly adjacent to their suite, but it was all Donny could do to claw the door open behind him, as Reddington slammed him into it, hands sliding up and down his ass, fingers pulling at the tight waistband of those goddamn trunks.

“Gonna rip these off of you,” the older man growled, as Ressler fumbled the door open.  “Obscene, way it shows off your cock, your pert little ass...”

Running a hand down the damp material, the younger man grinned, walking backwards into the open room.  “You bought ‘em for me,” he laughed, head spinning just a little, the warmth from the tequila heating his blood, emboldening him.  “You wanted to see me in them.”

“Yes, yes I did,” Reddington agreed, and kicked the door shut.

Ressler wasn’t sure whose hands were back on whose body first, just that they were kissing again, that his own arms were around the criminal’s neck, and the criminal’s hands were stripping those swim trunk off his body, and he was on the bed, naked, bare legs drawing up khaki-clad thighs.

“You are a beautiful man, Donny,” Reddington murmured, shoving him back, kneeling up between his legs, and kissed the hollow of his throat.  Moving down.  “This body is too fine to waste on those suits you wear to work.”

“Don’t... don’t think they’d let me wear these...”

“No, these are mine.”  Reddington’s teeth graze his belly button, and Ressler keened, his cock almost painful now, hard and hot against his belly.  He could feel how close the other man’s mouth was.  “Just like you, my darling.”

“Oh god, Red...”

“So pretty when you beg, Donny,” the gentle teasing continued, and Ressler moaned as that clever tongue slid up the underside of his erection.  “Beg for me.”

Ressler’s hands fisted in the covers, body twisting, eyes screwed shut.  He tried to stop himself, but he couldn’t - not like this.  “Need your mouth, Red...”

Another full-length lick left him shuddering.  “And?”  Another, Reddington following his tongue with his hand, pressing the younger man’s cock down into his flushed belly, licking a bead of pre-cum off the tip, before blowing a stream of cool air across.  “What’s the magic word?”

“Please, Raymond, _please_ suck me!”

“As you wish, my darling,” Reddington replied, and dove down, taking him in.

It always seemed, when they did this, it was rough, perfunctory, more about aggression than sensuality, and Ressler liked that - he liked it when it didn’t remind him of anything... well, good. But this was different - this was slow, long lazy pulls of teeth and lips up and down his rock hard flesh, hot wet suction that seemed to be pulling him into the center of the earth. Panting, Ressler writhed against it, the part of his brain that was still working wondering how in the hell something this basic could be this different, and...

A spit-slick finger stroked up between his cheeks, across his hole, pressing just barely against the tight pucker, and he groaned.

“Oh god, Red... Jesus...”

“Like that, Donny? You’re normally so sensitive about your ass...”

That was true, and he felt his face burning from more than just arousal, as he looked down at Reddington, knelt up between his legs. The man was still clothed, pants tented high, lips kiss-swollen, and there was something about it... 

“Please, don’t stop,” he asked in a small voice, shame and need washing through him in equal measure.

He could feel Reddington’s answering chuckle in his bones.

The older man crawled up his body, then, kissing him roughly, fingers still stroking over his hole, cock neglected and weeping against his belly. Ressler groaned up into it, grabbing handfuls of that half-open guayabera, ripping it the rest of the way open and sliding his hands under and across the older man’s chest. 

Reddington pulled off, Ressler’s lower lip still in his teeth, popping free with a little wet sound, and kissed his neck.

“Turn over. On your side.”

Confused, Ressler did as asked, rolling to his left and feeling the older man snug up behind him, fly undone, erection pressing against his crack. His heart sped up - Reddington wasn’t seriously considering...

“Shh,” came a soft reply, followed by another light kiss. Reddington smoothed a hand down his hip, fingers teasing the wiry curls at the base of his balls before curling back around his weeping length. The older man’s cock was right against him, so close, and for a split second, Ressler wondered what it would be like to have that inside of him, splitting him open, making him...

But that was a dangerous thought, and he breathed his nervousness out, pulling a pillow into his chest to bury his burning face in it. “Not now,” he murmured.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Reddington replied, and rocked against him. “I’d never hurt you, Donny.”

 _You do,_ he almost said.

But didn’t.

Ressler wasn’t really sure if it was true or not. Not anymore. Wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

Reddington came just before he did, the splash of heat across his perineum and underside of his balls just enough, combined with the perfect squeeze of the older man’s hand, to push him over the edge entirely. Ressler tumbled off the edge into a haze, the only thing he was certain of, Reddington’s hands milking his release from him, wiping him down, wrapping him up and pulling him closer.

They didn’t normally do this. Any of this.

But it felt good.

Too good to fight.

So he didn’t.

It had been far too long, since there had been any comfort in his life.

“Think we might have to wait a little while for the next round,” Reddington murmured in his ear, as he came back to the surface. “Don’t think either of our recovery times are that good.”

“Mmm, we might have to work on that,” Ressler said, and realized just how exhausted he was, listening to his own voice.  Between the alcohol and the orgasm and the gentle sway of the ship on its moorings, he could barely keep his eyes open.  That pleasant kind of exhaustion, where everything was right with the world, and there was no need to be awake, waiting for whatever bad thing was coming next.

"You, my darling, are drunk."

“Not so much anymore.”

“Hmph.”

Reddington retrieved his book from the floor, where it had fallen when he'd pushed Ressler back, and Ressler curled up against him, not caring for the moment that it was Reddington, letting himself enjoy the the comfort of another person's skin against his own.  It had been so long since he'd done that - sex, yes, cuddling after, hell no.  But where Audrey had been soft, Red was firm, unyielding, his body telling some narrative that Ressler knew he would never really know.  He'd known that from the first, when he'd cracked that case file for the first time, and...

He shook it off.

There was nothing to this.

Even if it was nice to pretend for a little while.

Sighing, he forced his body to uncoil, cheek on Reddington's shoulder and fingers idle on his chest, silent, as the older man turned page after page.

"What is this?" he asked at length, brushing the Thai lettering that sat above the older man's heart.  "You mentioned it, but..."

"Never fuck the whores in Bangkok," came the immediate reply.

Ressler lifted up on an elbow. The hell?  "I'm serious, Re-Raymond."

"Never fuck the whores in Bangkok," Reddington repeated, without looking up from his book.  "I believe there's some piece of paper or another in my official records that bears that phrase."

"No, can't say I've ever seen it before."  Ressler frowned - just exactly who had scrubbed this man's records, anyway?  The Navy, to save itself the embarrassment?  One of Reddington's bureaucrats for hire?  Or was there more going on here, with this man?  

"Before you ask me for the story, I'm afraid there's not much to tell.  Something from another life."

"I'd like to know," he said, hoping it didn't sound too much like an admission - that was something a guy like Irvington would ask, wasn't it?  Yeah, spoiled brat that Irvington was, he'd probably demand it.

So Ressler hooked a finger over the top of the book, tugging it down.  "Raymond?  You were saying?"

Reddington raised an eyebrow, but his eyes flicked imperceptibly over to a corner of the room - the place Ressler had already identified as one of the most likely hiding spots for a camera - and he nodded.

“The summer between my junior and senior year, a friend invited me out to the South Pacific for a cruise.  His family owned a yacht out there, old money, Hong Kong shipping fortunes, that sort of thing.  It was only supposed to be ten days, Hong Kong to Macao, easy trip.  We were arrogant in only the way the young can be.  Compass got damaged in a storm, charts ruined, and... we got lost.”  Reddington brushed Ressler’s arm.  He was staring out the porthole, at the turquoise waters beyond.  “We got very, very lost."

"Then what?"

"Donny..."

"Tell me."

"It was a sail yacht, minimum engine power, wood.  Beautiful boat, but she was a beast.  Part of her mast broke, sails ripped, and as we were trying to fix it the next morning, my buddy took the spar through his arm.  Did everything I could, but the first aid kit sadly did not include high dose antibiotics."

Ressler licked his lip, thinking back to Anslo, and the box, and the older man's deftness with tourniquet, with cauterizing his torn vein. The doctors had told him Reddington’s field surgery had saved his life, that not many men knew how to do something like that.  

Profiles were shit, but everyone had a motive. For everything they did. Everything they learned, or taught themselves.

"He died."

"Took about a week.  Worst thing you have ever smelled in your life."  Reddington's hand tightened on his leg, and the smile on his lip was agonized.  "Not so easy to deal with that, at twenty-two."

"And you?"

"Took me a couple nights to figure the stars, a few weeks after that to get a firm grasp on where I was.  Sails were near-ruined, food..." Reddington stopped again.  "Well, I wouldn't wish what I went through on anyone.  Finally managed to get myself near to land, avoid any of the real bad areas, landing in Vietnam wasn't a possibility, not in the mid-Seventies, and... make a long story short, I was a few days late for the start of my senior year."

"What's that..."

"You never let me tell a good story, do you, Donny?"  He tapped the ink.  "When the admirals who boarded me, evaluating me to see if I was still fit to be a midshipman you know, asked me what I'd learned from the experience, this is what I told them."

"Your friend died, and you said that?"

"I'd already given an official statement, cried in front of the psychiatrist, the whole nine yards."  He shrugged.  "Got them laughing, kept my ass in school."

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“It was a sailor’s answer, Donny.”

“You got it tattooed on your chest?”

“More or less.  I was twenty-two.  You do anything stupid when you were twenty-two?”

He laughed, humorless, short.  “I didn’t get a tattoo.”

“You should.  I’ll take you.  Get you something beautiful, something that fits this ideal Hellenic body of yours.”  Reddington’s fingers rang across his chest, down his ribs.  “Here, I think.  A bird, something strong but unassuming, brave but understated.  In watercolor.”  He leaned down, kissed the spot.  “No, in grayscale.  Dot work.”  He looked up, gray eyes burning.  “An albatross, a sea bird, so every time you look in the mirror, you know you who belong to.”

Ressler's mouth was suddenly very, very dry.  "I'm not..."

"I'll make the arrangements when we get back, already have somebody in mind.  You'll love it."  And Reddington shifted up, leaning over Ressler, pressing him back, mouth so close to the younger man's that he could taste his air.  "I'll love it."

And Ressler, suddenly overcome with something he didn't understand, surged up, wrapping his arms around the older man's neck, dragging him down into a bruising kiss.

They fucked in the shower again after that, Reddington letting him top, and for the first time since this thing started, that what Ressler realized it was - not surrender or submission. Reddington was in charge of it, had always been in charge of it, permitting him to take that position out of some twisted sense of... 

He didn’t know. Just that it wasn’t altruism or concern. And at the moment, Ressler couldn’t have cared less about the other man’s motives.

It just felt... right.

Slow, almost sweet, it was, although Ressler still wasn’t sure if that was a word that could ever be truly applied to whatever it was they were to each other.  But with Reddington a pliant mess in his arms and against the water-slick tile, kissing him languidly back as he rocked into the older man’s body, Ressler could almost believe it.

Could almost believe that this wasn't just some act, and...

Reddington's fingers dug into the soft skin over his ribs.

"Whatever you're thinking," the criminal whispered in his ear, "knock it off and put your fucking back into it."

Ressler laughed, tucked his face into the crook of Reddington’s neck, and complied.

+++++

“Are you sure? You were pretty out of it earlier.”

“Yeah, it’d be good to work some of this energy off.”

“You and your obstinate need to work out all the damn time,” Reddington said, and pushed off the bed, prowling towards him. “As if your truly delicious abs will melt away in a few days of hedonism.”

Ressler tried to think of a come back - Reddington was the biggest hedonist he knew - but, failing that, just grunted and shoved his feet in his sneakers. The criminal had packed him a decent set of work-out clothes, and a pair of Asics that were the exact model he had in his own closet at home. Six months ago, that might have worried him.

“You really gonna complain about my body?” he said instead.

It got him a smile. “Hardly, darling, hardly.” 

"Who was your friend?" Ressler asked, as Reddington adjusted his shirt for him. “The one who died?”

Those hands stilled, just for a moment, resting on his chest, before resuming their work.  “Wouldn’t do to give away all my secrets, would it?” the older man replied, even, giving nothing away, and looked him over once, before nodding. “You want to have dinner in the room tonight?”

Ressler smiled. “Sounds good. Just let me get a run in, okay?”

Reddington kissed him gently. “Have fun, darling.”

The sea air out in the ship’s open corridors was deliciously cool after the warmth of the morning. The sun wasn’t quite setting yet, but the light had taken on that distinctive golden hue, and twilight was creeping down the edges of the sky. An hour or two yet, he knew, beofre they pushed off again, back out for a night’s sail, and Ressler found himself hopeful. 

Maybe they could have one or two more peaceful days.

Maybe Camio wouldn’t come for them at all.

Maybe this could just be a vacation. Two men, sharing some time, being...

“You’re an idiot, Don,” he grumbled to himself, and shook it off.

The ship’s gym was small, but more than adequate, full of surprisingly nice equipment bolted and strapped in place on the clean white floor. Ressler was buzzing with a strange post-sex kind of energy, true, and it was nice to stretch his muscles a bit after that kind of exertion, but he wasn’t after anything strenuous that afternoon.

He needed to check his email.

See what Meera had dredged up for him.

He stopped by the Internet terminal on his way back to the room. It was empty, except for one of those Ohio Sundress girls, back from the port of call already, who was mercifully absorbed in whatever it was she was doing on the other computer. With one last glance around, he logged in to the throw-away account.

But what he found there made no sense at all.

_Found something interesting in a couple of the school publications.  Reddington was captain of the sailing team his junior year.  Competitions, events, very serious.  Apparently, he was quite good.  However, senior year he was replaced by another boy for unspecified reasons._

_I managed to track down the man who was coach at the time.  He's in the hospital with Alzheimer's, so I couldn't interview him.  His wife, however, made mention of something she referred to as the Thailand incident over the summer of 1977._

_Also, there was another Baudon at Annapolis during Reddington's time there.  Both Class of '78, and according to one of these articles, roommates.  There is no record of the younger Baudon graduating, though._

_I'm still investigating this, have a few calls in, will let you know what I find out.  I'm missing my daughter's dance recital for this tonight, Don.  You owe me dinner._

Ressler read it over once, then again, the pieces coming together in his mind. And it hit him, who Red’s friend must have been, who on this ship had motive to...

“Everything okay, Donny?”

He just about jumped out of his skin. That girl. Fuck. What was her name again? “Fine, umm... yeah, everything’s fine.”

She sat down in the chair next to him backwards, purse on her lap, between her body and the back of the chair. “I just... you and your partner, I see you guys fighting, and it’s...”

He shook his head, and flicked his eyes back to the screen, logging out. No time to send a reply. Goddamn. “None of your business?” he volunteered for her, not having to fake the irritation at all.

“I mean...”

“Really,” he said, looking back over his shoulder at her, “it...”

But his words died on his lips.

She had a syringe in her hand.

And before he could react, do anything, yell, she was plunging it into his neck.

And the world went black.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for torture. Ressler gets hurt, badly, in this chapter. 
> 
> And thanks, [StarsGarters](http://achiveofourown.org/users/starsgarters), for the wonderful, terrible kick in the ass I needed on this!

Ressler woke to pain.

Dull, throbbing, global pain.

Everything hurt, from his toes to his face, like his skin had shrunk and his muscles were trying to burst through. Far worse than any hangover, he lay there for a long time, hand over his eyes, wondering what the hell was going on. It was dark, oppressively hot, reeking of like an unwashed slaughter house. The ground was cold, gritty, cracked - dirt over ancient concrete that scraped against him when he tried to roll over, and he realized he was naked.

And, blunt nails digging into the filth beneath his hip, his pain-clouded mind caught up.

The boat, that girl, the email...

Baudon had sold them out. 

“Red?” he croaked.

No answer. Not even the faintest hint of movement.

 _Sold me out, then,_ he thought grimly, dragging himself up into a seated position, eyes straining in the gloom for something, anything, to latch onto.

Just breathing was difficult - his chest ached, and the smell in the air was nauseating. The only thing that kept Ressler from throwing up was the thought that it was just going to get worse, if he added to it like that. _It’ll go away in a while,_ he told himself, and, groping around in the dark, found a wall to lean back against.

It really, really stank.

The pain fading from his limbs, Ressler could feel the pressure in his temples mounting, his mouth cottony and strange. Dehydration, probably, and wasn’t that a bitch? 

No matter.

He let his head fall back against the wall, rubbing his forehead, concentrating on his breathing. Trying not to remember ever report he’d ever seen on the nature of cartel violence, the way Reddington’s enemies dealt with their problems.

Fuck.

Why did this shit always happen to him?

+++++

Growing up in Montana, Ressler had been in his fair share of dangerous situations as a kid. The town tiny as it was, amusement had mostly been found in the form of ATVs, shotguns, and old Army-surplus camping gear. Off-hours Boy Scout stuff. His parents had never much cared what he did or how far he wandered, as long as he showed up for church in the summers and school in the fall, and brought back a deer or two for the garage freezer during hunting season.

He didn’t exactly fit in with anyone else, not really. He wrestled, but that didn’t mean much - most guys were into football or hockey, and he’d never been a fan of team sports. The girls liked him, but as much as they liked him, they liked the other boys more. It left him not exactly alone, but not exactly a part of things in town, either. Like he had no place where he belonged.

And so he had wandered. Everywhere he could, up into the mountains or across the plains, sometimes with buddies, but more often alone. The older they got, the worse the divides became. Out of a graduating class of forty-seven, only five of them had gotten college acceptance letters; he’d been the only one who was going out of state. The other guys in his class hadn’t really understood why he wanted to go, or even, really, how he’d managed it.

He’d spent his free time after school buried in the town’s Carnegie library, the tiny stone box of a building stuffed full of classics, its non-fiction section overflowing with tomes on military history and political theory and biographies of men he would have very much liked to meet. It was another way to escape, when he was a kid, a way to experience something outside the small town of peeling house paint and broken-down cars. The librarian came to think of him as a grandson, and his teachers praised his work ethic, his smarts, but nobody was really supportive of him going to college. 

Boys like him didn’t go to college.

Boys like him didn’t go anywhere.

+++++

They’d taken his watch, along with everything else, and so Ressler had no idea how long he’d been in that reeking pit, when somebody came for him.

The guys who pulled him out of the cell were screaming at him in Spanish, some dialect he couldn’t quite understand, and they were armed. Ressler went without protest, hands up, as they forced him up a series of staircases and tunnels, any sense of direction utterly hopeless, until he found himself climbing a long metal ladder, up into blinding daylight.

And heard a voice he definitely recognized.

“Donny, how nice of you to join us. Tell me, how they treating you?”

It was that girl, the one from the boat, the one who’d injected him. _Dana_ , he remembered, as he was hauled out of the hole by a fresh set of goons, dropped face-first onto polished marble, limbs like rubber.

“Not as nice as the boat,” he said carefully, pushing himself up on the slippery surface, aware of just how exposed he was like this, naked in some drug lord’s house. He didn’t like the feeling. “So, not from Ohio so much, huh?”

“You fucking State Department boys, take everything at face value,” the woman sneered, and prodded him with her foot. “You’ve only been down there a couple of hours, don’t tell me you’re already giving up.”

 _State Department,_ Ressler realized, and could have laughed in relief. So they didn’t know he was FBI. That was something. Hell, with the stories he’d heard from classmates who’d gone on to the border mission, that could be everything. The difference between living through this or not.

“What, that hole?” he asked, and blinked a few times, the details of the room starting to come into focus, his eyes readjusting. Every scrap of training he’d ever had on hostage situations told him he needed to keep his mouth shut. Irvington, though, might not know that, Ressler decided. Irvington would be cranky and not afraid to say so. “It could smell a little better.”

More rapid-fire Spanish, the accent different, and he was slammed back into the marble, the butt of a rifle on the back of his head, forcing his cheek down. The cold press of what had to be a barrel, right against his spine.

He froze.

“General Camio wants you to know that you are a guest in his house, and you should show some gratitude that you’re still in one piece.”

Ressler held his hands up, off the ground, slowly. “Okay...”

That butt hit him in the shoulder, and he winced.

More Spanish, Dana talking to whoever that was, who Ressler couldn’t see.

There were maybe half a dozen pairs of shoes in the room - boots, polished dress shoes, Dana’s heels clicking in front of him, pacing. Above that, he couldn’t see much. Rich baseboards. White walls. Heavy wood furniture. Could have been anywhere. Shit.

“General Camio wants to know that he’s had a team reviewing the footage from your suite on the ship,” she said. “This is why you should be grateful.”

“Okay...”

“He says, it will be more fun taking you apart in front of Red. Considering that you are the one who fucks him.”

Ressler frowns, confused. What difference did that make? It wasn’t...

 _Stay in character,_ he told himself.

“I’m here, because of Raymond?” he asked, putting as much incredulity in his voice as possible. 

“You think General Camio is interested in some paper-pusher from D.C.?”

 _No,_ he almost said, and swallowed it down. It was true - Ressler or Irvington, both would have been beneath the consideration of a guy like Camio, but Irvington wouldn’t have known that. Or cared. 

But he wasn’t about to pitch a fit with an AK aimed at his spinal cord. No matter how in character it was.

“What do you want out of me? You think he’s going to come rescue me or something? He won’t. He doesn’t like me that much.”

Dana translated, and Camio fired back.

“Oh, the general thinks he will. Must take a special man, to top Raymond Reddington.”

“And if he doesn’t come?”

“Then we start sending him pieces of you. We’ll save your balls for last. Sure he wouldn’t want you to lose those.”

There was nothing else to be done - it was like something out of a fucking paperback spy thriller, this shit, naked in a drug dealer’s study, fate riding on whether or not some international criminal would come rescue him, and Ressler couldn’t help it.

He cracked up laughing.

And Camio barked an order that Ressler understood perfectly.

He wasn’t sure how he got back to his cell - just that he woke up in more pain than the last time, welts grinding painfully against the harsh floor, his back and legs one solid mass of bruises, hard and aching-stiff to the touch. His bladder had given out, he realized; the smell was coming from him now, and he just hoped he hadn’t gotten anything in any of his cuts.

It took him more effort to pull himself up that time.

+++++

The summer before he graduated high school, Ressler had a job on one of the local ranches. Twelve, fourteen hour days, sleeping in open-air bunkhouses, back-breaking work, not one but two serious infections he had to keep working through. Tried to apply for scholarships, to keep focused.

He had to do something. Community college, job in Billings, _something_.

Nothing seemed to work out for him. He had no idea what to do with himself. 

Then in October, unable to stand it a second longer, Ressler packed up his Jeep, told his parents he was going camping, and drove down to Helena, the Barnes and Noble there. 

For an SAT prep guide and a couple of those big magazines that ranked colleges and told you how to actually make your application stick with the acceptance team. 

Almost fifty dollars - money that should have gone to the mortgage on the house, money his parents would kill him for spending on books, but they didn’t have to know, did they? He’d gotten pretty good at hiding things from, well, everybody. 

“You looking at UMT?” the cashier asked him, as she handed him his bag.

“Maybe,” he said, and tucked his receipt carefully into his wallet. “If I can.”

She smiled, and he knew why - had said it to himself, plenty of times. Country boy in patched-up plaid, what the hell was he ever supposed to amount to?

He found a small coffee shop a few blocks away from the store, ordered himself a sandwich and a soda, and tucked into the college guide.

But he lingered too long, in the glossy photos of campuses and meticulous charts comparing majors, interests, and GPAs, letting himself dream, and secluded in a back corner like he was, didn’t see the clouds massing dark and angry in the mountains outside.

+++++

Time lost, senses dulled by the odious darkness, all Ressler had to focus on was his body. His breathing, his heartbeat, the pulse of blood through the damaged skin and muscle. It hurt - fuck, it hurt, and somebody had kicked him right in the spot where Anslo’s goons had shot him, which hurt even more.

His body, and what he was supposed to do next.

The lack of light was absolute, nothing for his eyes to latch on or adjust to. There was no air movement, no sound, except for the occasional scream that echoed through the corridor outside, from very, very far away. The room wasn’t tall enough to stand up in, he’d discovered when feeling out its dimensions by touch, ceiling maybe at five feet, and just as rough as the rest of it. The only break was the metal of the door, cold under his fingers, a small, barred window providing meager ventilation, but no more illumination.

Nobody came. Nobody. No sound of feet, no threats, no food. They’d left him a battered metal bottle of coppery water, maybe a liter by the feel of it, and Ressler waited as long as he could to touch it; he wasn’t sure how long they would leave him here, didn’t have any way of measuring out the time in between sips.

It was a set-up, the FBI man in him knew, designed for psychological torture. The kind of shit the CIA pulled.

Knowing that, though, didn’t make it any easier to endure.

Because it also meant he knew what it could do to people. Had seen it, more than a few times. He'd gotten to do a cliff-notes version of advanced SERE a while back, but that had been before the first Reddington task force. He’d put in for the full specialized resistance course himself a few times since then, but the only director he’d had who took it seriously, was willing to sponsor him for it, was Cooper. 

Last he’d heard, the package was still bouncing around, lost somewhere in the gigantic bureaucratic pinball machine of the FBI.

It was almost funny. Something Reddington would have found funny, no doubt, sick fuck that he was.

They’d have to have a laugh about, when the criminal came waltzing back in here to collect him.

Cause he was coming - it had been the whole point, hadn’t it? Reddington knew Camio would go for the person he was with, use them as bait, give him an excuse to meet, probably, a solid lead. It was why Red had volunteered him, instead of Keen. Wouldn’t do, to have anything happen to Keen, Red’s precious Lizzy, the one person in the Post Office, hell, the entire world, that he cared about...

It wasn’t fair.

He drank as slowly as he could.

+++++

The storm had struck when he was halfway home, one of those furies that swept through mountain passes with hurricane force. The tires on his Jeep were bald, the wipers utterly inadequate, and he misjudged a corner, sliding off into what, in that moment, felt like oblivion.

He’d finally crashed into the bottom of a ravine, car on its side, steep and slippery, the rain turning to sleet outside. Growing up in those mountains, he knew what that meant, and barely kept himself from panic. The cloth roof of the Jeep had torn from the mad slide down the steep incline, and Ressler had barely been able to extricate himself from the ruined car, backpack in hand, before the snow came.

It was five miles through the pass, the temperature dropped with every step, the snow blinding. If he hadn’t thrown his camping gear in the Jeep - his gortex jacket, his secondhand Army boots, a couple packets of hand-warmers that he cracked and stuffed in his pockets - he probably would have died of hypothermia. As it was, it was everything he could do to just stay on the road, following the guard rail along the inside edge, feeling along, until the road started falling and the snow turned back into rain, and he could breath again without the cold cutting his lungs.

The nearest town, he knew, was twenty-three miles away, but a Forest Ranger car pulled up alongside him as it was getting dark, and offered him a ride. 

He almost dumped the books, before his parents picked him up at the police station in Kalispel the next day, pissed and scared in equal measure. They only would have been angrier with him, knowing how much money he’d wasted on the stuff, since he’d lost them the family’s second car.

He didn’t, though.

They’d made it through the storm just fine, tucked away in their plastic bag, and taking them out in the quiet of his own room that night - after a hot shower, and a real meal, and a harsh telling-off from his dad - Ressler promised himself he was done. With Montana, with all of it.

Because he’d had an epiphany, out there in the rain and the sleet.

He was better than this place. He didn’t have to be a logger or a miner or a ranch hand or anything like that. He didn’t have to spend the rest of his life, working cattle in the summer and odd jobs in the winter and never really having enough money to support a wife and kids. He could wear suits and live in a big city, in civilization, and do important things. Things that mattered. He could be somebody who mattered.

Six months later, his Northwestern acceptance letter came in the mail.

He got the hell out of Montana, and never looked back.

+++++

The bottle got light. Everything inside him, from his throat to his ass, felt like a fire had been set in it, hunger gnawing out into his muscles, into his very bones. It didn’t matter how high the ceiling was; standing was pointless.

Ressler would have killed for a snowstorm.

The FBI had been home, the home he’d never had, full of decent people trying to do good things. He’d found a good team, a good girl, the promise of family and a place to belong, to belong to, and...

It was all gone.

He’d kept the pregnancy kit.

The one he’d found, the night Tanida died.

Ressler had kept it, stuck it in one of his nightstand drawers and tried to forget it was there. The only thing worse than not knowing was knowing. 

But he’d looked. He’d eventually broken down, and looked.

So what had he done, trying to be a good man, fighting the good fight? What fight was good? What was the point of it?

Lizzy, Agent Keen, Reddington loved her, it was fucking obvious...

He gave Reddington so much more, did so much more, had worked so much harder, and all Reddington could summon for him was complete indifference. And now, he was going to die in some godforsaken corner of the Caribbean, for a man, an international criminal, who couldn’t have cared less about him, who treated him like a goddamn fuck toy, something to be used and discarded, beneath disdain, for an agency that didn’t even know he was here, that wouldn’t even include him in the memorial rolls when they found out, so far off the reservation was he, for a system that had never cared, nobody had ever cared...

His bottle was empty.

Reddington hadn’t come.

Audrey was gone. 

It had all been for nothing.

He wasn’t even sure if he was conscious or not. Wasn’t sure if those were human voices he was hearing, metal scraping on stone.

It didn’t matter.

Never had. Never would.

+++++

“You said he would be alive.”

“He is.”

“Dana, darling, if this was a horse, I would shoot it. What has your employer done to my man?”

The first thing Ressler noticed was that he was out of that hole.

The second, that he was shivering uncontrollably.

He was sprawled on his side, in thick crab grass, the night sky washed out by city lights, smears of pollution, overhead. It was, to his fevered mind, the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, and he moaned, trying to roll over to gaze up at it.

Then, a man’s voice, harsh and arrogant, border Spanish at its finest. “He fine.”

“He is _not_ fine, he...”

Ressler closed his eyes, the rush of the outside world too much for him to take, fisting a hand in the cold, wet earth underneath him. There was something rough, thick, around his wrists, but he barely paid it any attention. “Stop it, Red,” he muttered to himself, “stop it, stop fucking pretending, shut the fuck up, I know...”

“Seems I broke your little pet, Raymond,” that heavy accent continued. “Or maybe you are his pet? Don’t know how you fa...”

“This is not necessary, Miguel! Do _not_ do this!”

That was fear, real fear, in Reddington’s voice - the same fear from the Box, when Anslo had a weapon pointed at his accountant’s head, and that alone pulled Ressler’s attention up.

To what was going on.

They were out in the courtyard of some villa, up on a small hill, a half-ruined city lit and spread out around them. There were armed men, lots of them, ringing an pool, glowing like something out of the underworld, and in front of him, there was a massive ramada, stone pillars disappearing into a dark ceiling, chains stretched towards...

And there was Reddington.

With a .45 to his head and some goon’s hand tight on his arm, fury in his eyes.

“Red?” Ressler asked, barely able to get the words out. “Red, what’s going on?”

“Donald, these men are not going to kill you. Because they know I will hunt down every living member of their families and bury them alive in the fucking desert if they do,” Reddington said, in that infinitely calm way of his, and glared at one of the men, wearing a beret - that was all Ressler could see, the rest of the detail lost. “They are going to hurt you, though. Very badly, I suspect. You are going to be fine, do you understand me? I... I am going to get you out of here.”

He shook his head. No. What? What was... “I...”

But that guy was yelling, there was a pressure on his arms, and his body jerked up. Dragged up, into the air, the tension in his shoulders screaming, something popping awake behind him, and...

Ressler knew that sound. That smell.

“Red,” he gasped, “Red...”

“Miguel, stop this!”

The guy in the beret smirked, teeth white in the wash of Ressler’s blurred vision.

“ _No_.”

And Ressler was about to ask, when pain crashed against back in the form of boiling water.

He screamed.

“General Camio says it’s poetic, in his mind,” that damned woman translated. “Seawater, burns, to match your own scars. He had it brought up specia, you two being l-lovers and all...”

“Miguel!”

Another bucketful, right in the same place. He screamed again, or was still screaming - he wasn’t sure. The smell of burnt flesh, the skin of his back curdling, the right side in unbearable agony, his body snapping forward, useless against the restraints...

“Jesus fucking Christ, stop this!”

Another, and... 

“Fine, Miguel, fuck, you can have it, just stop!” Reddington yelled.

Ressler looked up, tears in his eyes, as the criminal held his hands up in a clear gesture of surrender.

The Beret spoke, arms folded, impassive. Just staring. 

“Okay, yes, fine, I called Border Patrol, dropped an anonymous tip about your shipment!”

“Why?”

“Because you were never a very good businessman!”

Skin boiling with pain, salty water mixing with blood and pus as it cooled, rolling down his back, Ressler stared in disbelief. Snark? Reddington was going with... and he closed his eyes. 

For the first time in a long time, he found himself longing for home. The snow.

“What you mean?” 

“I mean, Miguel, that there is far more money in the sex trade than the illegal labor. Those sweatshops you were sending those girls to were going to pay you a fraction of their true worth. I was brokering a deal with Floriana’s group, redirecting them to far more lucrative ends.”

The drug lord stopped, waved his men off, gesturing Reddington forward, the girl from the boat stepping up to his side. 

“You said nothing of this to us,” she translated.

“I tried to bring it up before they crossed the border, but your organization, that fucking secretary you had me dealing with... what was that bitch’s name, umm...”

Camio growled again, himself. “Luis...”

Reddington nodded, eyes on the drug lord, but clearly talking to that girl at his elbow. “Right, that Mexican intelligence guy who worked his way into your organization, which was a serious blow to my confidence in you, when I found out, let me tell you...”

“You brought that deal to him?”

“Yes I did, and please make sure that the General understands this point, Dana, I diverted his shipment with the full intention of increasing his return on investment,” Reddington told her. “But he put out a hit order on me before he allowed me to explain. I know now that it was Luis, the Mexican government, who prevented us from cementing the deal, and I completely understand his position on the matter. Please explain also that I am willing to pay him up to three hundred percent of the value of said lost shipment, if he cuts my man down now, and lets us leave here unmolested.”

The woman nodded, and turned back to her master, Spanish flying fast.

Ressler didn’t even try to catch it. Just looked at Reddington, who steadfastly refused to meet his eye. He sagged in the chains, wondering if he could pass out yet.

Finally, Dana stopped, and turned back to Reddington. “You have this money with you now?”

He snorted. “You think I was packing sex toys in that briefcase I brought with me?” And he looked to Camio again. “Please, Miguel, let’s chalk this up to a big misunderstanding, and go back to our formerly friendly working relationship.”

That cold ooze of brine and blood was trickling down between his asscheeks, down his legs. Reddington still wouldn’t look at him, as Camio shook his hand.

Ressler wasn’t too sure what happened next, just that fresh waves of pain hit him - the pressure releasing in his shoulders, hitting the ground, blistered skin twisting as the angle of his muscles shifted underneath, being dragged across grass and stone and that marble, that marble again.

And then Reddington was there, knelt at his side before a set of huge wrought-iron doors.

Turning onto his uninjured left arm, Ressler reached for him. “Red...”

“Donny, this is very important,” Reddington whispered in his ear. “Can you stand?”

“Red...”

“I’ll take that as a no. Here,” and something small, cylindrical, was pressed into his hand, followed by a watch, that very expensive watch Reddington always wore. “If I am not back when the minute hand reaches this,” and he pointed at the diamond in the bevel, “you inject yourself, and you get the hell out of here, you understand me?”

His brain was too fogged with pain to fight it, much less understand what the fuck Red was talking about, but he nodded anyway.

A kiss was pressed to his forehead, and he rolled his eyes up, following the criminal as he stood, grabbing for him, needing the pain to stop. But Reddington just looked at him, a strange expression on his face, and strode back down the hall, back into the interior of the house, past a pair of stunned guards.

“One more thing, Miguel!” he roared, kicking one of the guards in the shin, ripping his gun from his holster and firing it, point-blank into his gut. “I always hated your wife’s tamales!”

The house exploded into gunfire.

Ressler squeezed his eyes shut, hand clenching around the pen, digging into the marble, trying to keep himself awake.

The shooting seemed to go on forever, pain throbbing fresh with every beat of his heart, but the hands on the watch had barely moved, when Reddington came back to him. 

“Getting you out of here, Donald,” the criminal whispered in his ear, and something cool, thick, was poured over his ravaged back. Smelled sweet, covering the reek of his burnt skin. Relief, for a moment, before that pen was jabbed in his thigh and the ice-cold shock of pure adrenaline burst into his veins. “Need you to stand.”

Ressler almost threw up, getting vertical, but he managed, clinging to Reddington. His feet were bare and the ground hurt and it hardly registered; he didn’t know how far they walked like that, through the dark city, silent in the depths of night. The watch in his hand ticked away, the hand reaching to the five, light blooming on the edges of the sky, when a tall colonial building rose above a high wall, a gate, men in uniform...

...Red was yelling...whispering, in his ear, _good boy, we’re almost there, you did so well, good boy, let’s put those forged State Department credentials to use..._

His feet stopped.

His body collapsed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some comfort for all the hurt coming, plus, explanations as to what Red was doing while Donny was in the hole.


	7. Chapter 7

It was a week before Ressler saw Reddington again.

Before he got some answers.

Not that the doctors didn’t talk to him, when he was conscious, when he was awake enough to remember, explaining this and that

_...yes, your prognosis is good... skin grafts aren’t necessary, the damage was second-degree, that’s why it hurts so much... you’re lucky... we had to cut away some necrotized tissue on your legs, the wounds got infected... your body is severely malnourished so healing is slower than it should be... we do need you to complete a few rounds of antibiotics... scarring will be minimal... the State Department’s been notified..._

State Department. 

He didn’t bother correcting them. It'd bounce around in the system for months. The FBI would figure it out sooner or later. Malik would worry that he hadn’t called in, Keen would fret that he’d been gone too long, they’d start turning over rocks, call Reddington, find him, come down, tell him what a fucking idiot he’d been...

Yeah. Ressler wasn’t really looking forward to that. So he let them keep _Irvington_ on his charts and his blood work and nodded when the doctors used it, speaking to him about his injuries with kind words his pain-fogged brain could barely catch, or just didn’t care to.

He slept as much as he could. Floated on painkillers. Let the time slip away from him. Like he had after Anslo. 

With about as much hope.

Nobody had come to see him then - his parents couldn’t afford to travel, not over something as stupid as a gun shot, Audrey so far out of his life as to be functionally non-existent, nobody from the Post Office bothering to so much as stop by, see if he got the damn flowers. Laid up for weeks, with no visitors, nobody... he’d never had anyone outside of work. Just Audrey, and she wouldn’t be coming by again. Not now.

“Is there anybody I can call for you, Mister Irvington?” the nurse asked him, the morning they were moving him out of the ICU, burns and cuts clear of infection. It was a small, tight space, but comfortable somehow. He wasn’t looking forward to the bustle of hospital beyond, and it occurred to him, as an orderly helped him into a wheelchair, that he had no idea where he even was. “Family, perhaps? I’ve sure somebody’s looking for you...”

“No family,” he told her, and tried to smile about it. It was disappointing, in a way. He’d been gone a while, hadn’t he? Should have triggered some kind of protocol back at the Post Office. Where was Cooper, chewing his ass out for not being at work? Liz, chiding him for being such a klutz? Malik, with her no-nonsense attitude and questions about what books her little boy might want to read next?

Where the fuck was _Reddington?_

This was his fucking _fault_ , and the bastard didn’t even have the decency to come by and apologize.

_Of course he doesn’t._

“There’s nobody.”

The private room was nicer than the ICU - big, surprisingly well-appointed, and deliciously sunny, a window full of Caribbean sky. He had the freedom to get up and walk around, according to the nurses, the fucking catheter finally out and no risk of damage to the scabbing surface of his back. It was lonelier, though. There was nobody coming by to check his bandages, his fluids, every hour or so, like there had before. 

They’d also started cutting him back on the drugs.

With nothing better to do, he just laid there on his stomach, watching the sky, trying to ignore the stabbing pain, twinging through his back.

When the nurse finally came by at noon, with lunch and a fresh stack of bandages, he caught a glimpse of himself in the bathroom mirror. She’d had him strip off his gown, down to his waist, for better access. It was the first time he’d looked at himself since arriving, and, overwhelmed by what he was seeing there, had to ask the nurse to stop. 

“I can give you a few minutes,” she said, not unkind. Avoiding her eye, he nodded in gratitude.

Limping slightly on his way into the bathroom, leaning heavily on the pole with his IV bag, Ressler didn’t recognize his own body. His limbs were incredibly weak; the starvation period evidently enough to take its toll.

He leaned on the sink, taking in the changes. Eyes haunted, muscle tone and fat alike faded near to nothing, skin blistered and scabbing, immensely painful from having those bandages pulled off. That was where it would scar, growing back in thin layers, pale and tight. It could have been worse, he knew, much worse, but looking at the damage now, it didn’t feel like it. 

Felt...

“You look remarkably fit for having spent over a week in a dungeon, don’t you, Donny?”

He froze. 

Reddington looked fantastic. He always looked fantastic. The impeccable suit, the hat, a fucking cravat, that little smile of his.

Ressler hated him. Ressler wanted to kiss him.

Ressler also couldn’t stand for more than five minutes without shaking, so he just pushed past him, back to the bed. 

“You’re here.”

“Yes, Donny, I’m here.”

“Did you let... work know?”

“Now why would I do that?” Reddington asked, not unkindly, and laid his hat on the top of the IV bag. “They still have you on a drip?”

“Docs are worried about calorie intake. Could barely get anything down in the ICU...”

“...and you were starved, before that,” Reddington finished, casual, and laid his jacket aside as well, rolling up his shirt sleeves. 

“Yeah, I was, no thanks to... what are you doing?”

Reddington produced a pair of latex gloves, sort of waggling them in Ressler’s face, before snapping them on. “The lovely girl outside said you need your bandages reapplied, she was nice enough to give me the job.”

“Red, are you...” and then he remembered the box, the house. “Guess you’ve saved my life twice. I should be able to trust you to put on a band-aid.”

“I would normally agree.” A tube of antibacterial cream was produced and smoothed carefully on. “But you must be angry at me, not coming.”

“I understand. I...” and Ressler closed his eyes. “Why are you still calling me Donny? The cameras are gone.”

“Maybe I like it.”

“You don’t like me.”

“Who said I don’t like you, Donald?”

“So now it’s Donald again?”

“It certainly isn’t Ressler at the moment.” The pain started to subside, the cream cooling as always, and Ressler sighed. “Why haven’t you told them, Agent, who you really work for?”

“I don’t know where I am,” he lied - because he didn’t, he hadn’t bothered to ask because it didn’t seem to matter, Cooper was going to drag his ass back to DC sooner or later

Reddington nodded. “It's a private clinic, very exclusive, one of those places rich Europeans build to escape the wait times back home."

"One?"

"I own stock in a few of them.  Good investments, health care is a fantastic growth industry at the momenty. Excellent way stations for just about any smuggling operation you can think of.  Nobody questions biohazard stickers."  Reddington opened a window, and the air changed, sweet and cool, blowing in off the sea.  "Plus, it's always nice to have access to real medical professionals.  My knowledge of the healing arts is a bit medieval, to say the least." He smirked at him. “Although god only knows what you might have picked up on that little four mile stroll to the Embassy, if I hadn’t slathered you down with honey.”

“Honey? That was...” He frowned. 

“It’s good for burns. Good for a lot of things, actually. Industrious little fellows, bees.” 

Ressler was too tired to bother. “Thought the State Department would send me back to the States,” he grunted instead.

"I know a few people, pulled some strings.  They got you stabilized, which is more than we would have been able to achieve at a hospital in that wreck of a city, and transferred you up here."

"Haiti?  We're still in..." and he sighed.  "Of course you've got interests in Haiti."

"Fantastic smuggling port, but an utter shambles since the quake.  The UN is very bad about keeping tabs on the little things like international relief money, might as well be pouring water into a sieve, so some friends of mine have had me keeping an eye on the place.  Called in a few favors while they had me waiting at the Embassy, and..."  Reddington shrugged.  "Here we are."

"You're fixing Haiti?"

"Need that port operational, but you’re still not answering my questions,” the criminal countered, as if his bullshit was somehow important.

“I...” and Ressler hesitated. “It’s nice, not being an FBI agent right now, I suppose.”

Redding smoothed the first gauze patch on. “Oh?”

“I was thinking, down in that hole... where’s it gotten me, all of this? Fiancee dead, chance at a family...”

“Not to appear as unaware to the suffering you’ve endured, Donny, but there are other women...”

“I don’t want another woman!” he snapped, suddenly aware of a growing heat in his groin, and what a fucking time for a hard-on. It just felt good to be touched by somebody, anybody, who even in passing, thought of him as desirable. He hunched further over himself. “I wanted her.”

“And she’s gone, and your job isn’t what it could be, and your life isn’t what you’d hoped for. I understand,” Reddington soothed, gentler than Ressler had ever heard him, and his hands were soft, easing the gauze back on, taping it down on the unburnt periphery. “Believe me, darling boy, I understand.”

He looked back over his shoulder, the medical tape pulling at the shift in angle. “The fuck do you want with me, Red? Why are you here?”

Reddington had removed the gloves, was reaching for the discarded gown. Ressler remembered, then, that he was naked. It didn’t seem to matter, though, and he wasn’t sure what that said about him.

Just that when Reddington patted his lap, he went. Slid one leg across the older man’s thighs, so they were chest to chest, his bandaged back safe, arms curling around automatically.

“I hate you,” he whispered, burying his face in Reddington’s shoulder. “I really fuckin’ hate you.”

“Oh, Donny, no you don’t,” Reddington said, stroking the soft, unharmed skin of his right hip. The worst of the water had hit his left shoulder and upper back, and Ressler shivered at the touch, so close to all that pain. “You don’t have to hate me.”

Something about that cut clean through the younger man, and he sagged in the older’s arms, fingers digging into the back of his crisp shirt, the ridges of scar tissue rippling underneath. And, tired and hurting as he was, his cock was hard in the narrow space between his bodies, and he needed, needed... “Raymond...”

“Shh, Donny, it’s okay, you’re okay.” Reddington pressed a kiss to his neck, voice low, dark, perfect. “I’ve got you. Let go, there are no cameras, just let go, you’re okay...”

The pain subsided, subsumed, as Ressler clung to his criminal and gave it up. After all that time in the dark alone, being held, in the sunlight, words whispered in his ear and hand soft on his flesh, was too much to handle.

There were tears in his eyes when he came, breath harsh against Reddington’s shoulder, arms shaking with the effort of holding himself close. 

“Lunch, Donny? Don’t want that lovely mahi mahi getting cold.”

+++++

The second-degree burns he’d sustained, the doctors told him, would be healed up enough to travel in a few days. The skin would never be right again - slow to tan, quick to blister under sunlight, thinner and weaker than what had been there before - but Ressler could live with that.

Hell, he’d lived _through_ it.

Living after it should have been easy.

But it wasn’t.

Because Reddington was there.

And Ressler was okay with that, when he shouldn’t have been.

There was no real discussion about any of it. That afternoon, after Reddington had changed his bandages and jacked him off, Ressler had woken up in bed to find the man hanging suits up in the room’s little closet.

“How are you feeling, Donald?” he’d asked.

“Where have you been?”

“Tying up a few loose ends.”

“And I’m what, the last?”

“In a way.”

And that was it; that was all of it. 

Reddington had business, always had business, and Ressler had appointments, therapy sessions, consultations with the exceptional plastic surgeon who was able to tuck the jagged mess of scars on his legs into a few neat little lines. Not that he cared - Ressler had never thought of himself as a vain man, but he could breath a little easier, knowing the evidence of what Camio’s men had done to him was as invisible as it could be. The freckles on his left shoulder would be gone, were gone, but he could live with that, too.

The antibiotics left him shaky, sick to his stomach, but the staff nutritionist came by with her juice machine when he couldn’t keep solid food down, and Reddington was there in the middle of the night when he didn’t quite make the toilet. It was humiliating, but it wasn’t.

“I almost died like that too,” the older man told him, the night that happened, wiping his face down as if he was a child. “Your body has to get used to eating again.”

“What, my stomach has to... physically readjust?”

“No. Your mind does.”

There was an entire world of pain in that one little statement, but Ressler didn’t push for it. No reason - he didn’t to hear it, and Reddington probably wouldn’t tell him anyway.

“How long was I in that guy's basement, anyway?” He’d been scared to ask, afraid it was had been mere hours, that he’d crumbled over nothing.

Reddington was quiet for a moment - and the answer shocked Ressler.  “Ten days."

He didn’t know what to say to that - how in the fuck had he survived that? _Why_?

"What happened to your friend, Baudon, the guy from..."

"He appears to have kept the ship in port two hours longer than it should have been, in order for them to snatch you.  I don't know how involved he was or what he was told. And I don’t care.”  Reddington snorted.  "I've already taken care of it."

"Red..."

"If you're going to tell me I shouldn't kill people over you, Donald, then let's most certainly not talk about what happened to Camio's compound, hmm?"

The younger man shook his head. He didn’t want to know. All the ugliness he’d seen, chasing Reddington, working with Reddington... he didn’t need to know, what had happened out there. Everyone was dead, more than likely. That was good enough for him.  

He just wanted his fucking back to heal up. Even under the lubed-up bandages, the damn scabs cracked painfully.

"Was gonna say thanks.  For... for coming for me."

"Of course."

Ten days in that fucking pit, with a liter of water and nothing else. In the clinic, all the water was pure, filtered, delicious. They had a spa set up on one end of the facility, with all manner of hydrotherapy set-ups, and Reddington took him down there every morning to let him soak.

“Guess I should get you some board shorts,” he said, the second time they went.

Ressler just laughed - that damn speedo was still all that was in his luggage, and really, with nobody else around, it didn’t seem to matter.

Reddington had bought him normal clothes too, clothes like the ones he normally wore, plain and simple, interchangeable for maximum wear. Just a few pairs of khaki shorts and t-shirts, and while it felt good to dress like himself again, it was strange. 

A reminder that he had to go home. Face...

“What did you tell them?”

“Harold? Nothing. Well, nothing true, but nothing that’s going to get you in trouble.”

“Red...”

“You have any idea how easy it is to crack your work email account and submit leave?”

“Director Cooper wouldn’t have bought a form...”

“Oh, I also had a delightful computer graphics friend from South Korea whip me a passable voice translator.”

“You forged my voice?”

“Harold was surprisingly supportive of your decision to take a few more weeks in the Bahamas.”

The clinic was quiet, exclusive, the few other patients easily getting lost in the luxurious surroundings. There was a small garden and outdoor pools and a teak walkway that led down to the ocean, the private beach in the tiny bay that the facility was nestled into. Ressler had no desire to go out and look at the ocean - his back needed more protection than thin cotton t-shrts could provide - but he caught Reddington out there a few times, at dawn or dusk, watching the waves.

After a few days - four, five - the doctors were telling him he was well enough to travel, that he would be fine, that he could leave if he wanted.

But Ressler...

He found Reddington on the beach that evening, tiki lamps set out by the staff casting warm light on the quiet lap of the waters, light just fading from the horizon. It was beautiful, that scene, otherworldly, Reddington standing right in the middle of it all, and Ressler had never felt more unworthy of anything in his life.

This world, the one that men like Reddington moved in, that grand game that had been played since the first government formed, the first crime committed against it... it wasn’t his. Wasn’t for him. 

Not the boy from Montana.

Reddington smiled at him as he approached, but Ressler just shook his head, lifting his face to the cool night breeze.

“Keen was right. You should have brought her instead.”

“Why do you say that, Donald?”

“She’s the resourceful one. She’s the fighter. What do I do but follow the field manual?” He sighed. “Didn’t save me out there. Keen probably would have found a way to claw her way out in a couple of hours, shot Camio herself, and all that. Not wait around to be rescued like some goddamn princess in a fairy tale.”

“We all need to be saved sometimes, Donald.”

“And some of us suck at our jobs.”

Reddington was quiet for a moment. “I haven’t been with a woman since my wife... I haven’t been with a woman for decades. Not... not really.”

“Great, so you brought me because you can’t stand the reminder.” He kept his eyes on the horizon. “Wonderful.”

“Donald, that’s not what I meant.”

“It’s fine, I mean, it’s fine.” Ressler’s nose stung of salt. His body felt light and heavy at the same time, his mind as empty as the waters around them. “I know what I am. I’m not the hero of the piece, not the prodigy, not the star player or the team captain. I’m the guy who handles the paperwork, goes home, has a beer, and goes to bed. And there was a day I thought I could change that, change... something, be something. But I’m not. I’m not that guy.” 

He smiled a little, rubbing his hands together against the chill. “I spent so much time hunting you, thinking I could prove to everyone, to myself, that I could be more. And what’d that get me?” Ressler shook his head. “What’d good I do anyone?”

Reddington was silent for a long time, before turning around, arms folded and ass on the rail. “You know, Donald, that there are two types of men in this world. Those who were born to lead, and those who were destined to follow.”

“Well, I think we both know which I am.”

“The mistake most men make is thinking there’s shame in being the latter,” Reddington said, and touched his cheek, fingers catching on the light stubble there. Ressler swallowed, but didn’t step away. “But there isn’t, Donny. There isn’t.”

“Red...”

“You throw yourself into this job, trying to prove to yourself you’re something you’re not, giving your allegiance to an idea that’s mostly dead, and doesn’t care much about you anyway. That’s what patriotism is, Donny, the mad scream of a man who has nothing else to follow, and desperately needs a master. You,” and Reddington’s hand slid down his chest, patting his heart, “need to find yourself a master that isn’t faceless.”

“I’ve failed at everything...”

“But you wouldn’t. Not with him. You haven’t. You’ve made him so proud.” There was a kiss on his cheek, and he realized there were tears on his cheeks. “That’s the whole point.”

He swallowed. “You don’t love me.”

“Do you need me to? Or doesn’t that make it okay for you?”

“You love her.” He couldn’t keep the accusation out of his voice.

“Yes, and she is brilliant, and she burns hot, and she will flare out in her own existential despair long before you even think about giving up.” Reddington cast an appraising eye over him. “I want to protect her. You, I want to set free. Take you out of that FBI-issued strait jacket and see who you are underneath.”

+++++

They barely made it back up the path, to the clinic, to their room, to their bed. Reddington’s hands were everywhere on him, heavy and possessive, and Ressler only barely kept himself from slamming his lover into a wall out in the lobby or hallways, right there in front of God and everyone. But they managed, somehow, and the second the door was kicked shut, Ressler was in the older man’s arms, kissing him as hard as he could.

Reddington laughed, and kissed him, and moaned, and laughed some more, letting Ressler wrap his arms around his neck, as he shed light jacket and thin shirt, walking them backward. Ressler barely registered where they were, what they were doing, dizzy with the force of whatever was building between them, whatever had been building between them all these months, and it was good, being that out of control.

But he felt himself being bent backwards over the bed, the pressure painful against the scabs, and whined out.

Off him in an instant, Reddington pressed a kiss that also felt like an apology to his mouth, smiling a little, rubbing his cheek with a soft thumb.

“We can still do this. I’ll be careful with you.”

“Wha...”

But then Reddington was pulling off his own clothes, shirt and pants, underwear and sandals, and Ressler swallowed. 

He knew what was being asked of him.

Knew.

And yet...

“Donny?”

He nodded, although he didn’t rightly know why. 

“Okay. I... I want you, Red.” He looked up at him with pleading eyes. “I want you.”

Red stripped him, laid him out on his belly, pillows fluffed and arranged under him, hips canted up, knees spread, and he buried his face in the duvet, knowing he was flushed red down to his navel with the embarrassment of it. But the feeling of Reddington kissing up his spine, turning to the right to avoid the burns, fingers following, cool and warm at the same time...

“Oh, god.”

“I am going to fuck you tonight, Donald Ressler,” Reddington murmured in his ear, one hand resting possessively on his right hip, the other reaching for a little bottle on the nightstand that hadn’t been there that morning. “I’ve waited so long for this, dreamed about you, welcoming me in...”

Ressler closed his eyes. “Red...”

“Raymond,” the older man urged, the words whispered, sibilant in the darkness of their room.

“Ra-Raymond, I...”

“It’s not all I want from you, Donny. Not all I want you to be for me, but it’s a start.” A kiss was pressed to the back of his neck, a finger sliding up the crack of his ass. The scent of vanilla filled the air, and it had to be one of those therapeutic massage oils from the physical therapy suite. For some reason, that made Ressler shiver all the more - the criminal had _stolen_ lube for this.

“Give yourself to me, Donny...”

“Raymond...”

“Be mine, promise you’ll be mine.”

“I... oh!”

He couldn’t finish.

That finger, slipping into him, stole his words away.

It wasn’t like what Ressler had been expecting. Or fearing. Reddington wasn’t rough or thoughtless or snarking at him, like they normally were. This was almost sweet, the fingers inside of him going slow, easy, pumping ever wider, more slick, wet and warm, until he was begging for more, those damn fingers opening a void inside of him he never knew was there. 

He grabbed back for his lover’s wrist, as Reddington pulled out again.

“Red, Raymond, please, no, I need... I need...”

“I know what you need, Donny,” came the soft answer.

Reddington pressed full-length against his back for a moment, heavy and hard, turning his face just enough to kiss him, and there it was, that thick head he’d hand in his mouth and in his hand, pushing into his still-tight hole.

He sobbed as it popped through, sliding home.

Reddington was....

“That’s it, Donny. There’s my boy.”

+++++

“Come work for me,” Reddington said, long after they had finished and cleaned up, laying together in the cool of the night, cuddled in as best they could without tearing the bandages off. They’d had to reapply the bit above his spine, some bleeding on the periphery, where hands had slipped and bodies twisted, in the final few strokes. Ressler, empty again and aching in an entirely new and not unpleasant way, could still feel his lover inside of him, fucking him with those smooth, confident strokes.

He thought, maybe, he might never feel anything but that again.

He could get used to this.

“Pardon?”

“I said come work for me, Donald. I can pay you ten times what the FBI is, and I think you’ll find I offer an exceptional benefits package.”

Ressler laughed a little. “Like medical?”

“See, you’re already using it.”

He thought about it. Sighed. Laid his head on his lover’s chest, eyes closed. “I can’t. I... I have obligations to the FBI.”

“Bullshit you do. Those fuckers got your woman killed. You owe them nothing.”

“Then I have obligations to my team,” he said, grasping for something, some dark little corner of his soul intrigued, while another screamed at him to turn it down, to turn off this road. “Meera and Liz and everyone else.”

“You could be my new liaison, my other man in the Post Office. Like Dembe.”

“Red...”

“If you’d like, we wouldn’t even need to tell any of them. Just Harold, I suppose, and considering what I have on him, I doubt he’ll make a fuss.” Reddington rubbed his shoulder. “It’d be a lark, don’t you think? You, pretending to be the good little Boy Scout, secret identity, just like...”

“I _can’t_ ,” he said, both final and plaintive, wanting a reason to defect, desperately hoping he wouldn’t be handed one.

Reddington didn’t speak for a long time, and then sighed. Kissed the top of his head, fingers carding through his hair.

“It’s not a one-time offer, Donny. Any time, for any reason, that you want to come play on the team that actually wants you on it, you can.”

He closed his eyes, focused on their combined breathing. “I’ll think about it,” he promised.

“I know you will.”

They didn’t speak again, laying there together in bed; warm, sated. 

As Ressler slipped off to sleep, Reddington’s hand never left his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bwahaha, did I say Reddington would give Ressler some answers? Turns out, Ressler don't care. Which might work out pretty damn good for Red... ;p
> 
> That bit and the epilog to go, folks! Thanks for hanging in with me on this!


	8. Chapter 8

Dembe met him at the front of the clinic, the stolen Mercedes Benz town car freshly washed and shined. It wasn't exactly what the bodyguard would have preferred for this little excursion - something dark and unobtrusive would have been better, but Mr. Reddington insisted on flash for some things.

He spared a thought for the proper owners, and gave his boss a warm hug.

"Dembe, Dembe, good to see you, how are you finding Haiti?"

The other man shrugged. There was nothing particularly impressive about the place; but then, there was nothing particularly impressive about most places. Job was the same.

"Keeping busy?"

"Everyone's been taken care of. Like you asked."

"Except for the girl."

"Except for the girl, boss."

Mr. Reddington gave him one more pat on the shoulder and, adjusting the brim of his hat, let himself into the back seat. "It's always just the girl, isn't it?"

"Except when it's the boy," Dembe deadpanned, and glanced back in the rear-view mirror.

Red was smiling - the owners had a minuscule wet bar in the center armrest, and he was pouring himself a scotch. 

Dembe turned his attention back to the road, smirking a little himself.

He never had been one to let the boss down.

+++++

His official FBI file might have said Kenya, as his nation of origin, but the reality was far more complicated.

Like most things in Mr. Reddington's organization, obfuscation for obfuscation's sake was the order of the day. It had taken Dembe a few years to get used to that, to the fluidity of the truth, the currents of lies and deceit that ran through their underworld, but a few things he'd always known to be true about his boss. 

One was that Mr. Reddington never did anything that didn't, in some way, benefit himself.

Dembe supposed that he should be upset about such a thing. But the boss' self-interests had seen him freed from both the poverty of his childhood, and the slavery of his youth, a chance for revenge against those who had wronged him, a chance to become something other than another black man languishing in prison. No. Mr. Reddington's utilitarianism had lifted him from his own nihilism.

It'd be the same for that FBI man, Ressler.

He'd belonged to the boss from the moment he'd taken up Mr. Reddington's case file.

About time he figured that out

Dembe didn't ask, and in truth, didn't care what Mr. Reddington had been up to, the past week or so at the private clinic. That was his business, and hunting down the few escaped soldiers from Camio's compound had been challenge enough for him.

All he was curious about was...

"You finally fuck him, boss? Hold him down and make him take it."

"What a crude mind you have." Mr. Reddington shifted in the back seat, scotch in hand. Sprawled out in the plush leather, staring out the dark windows, like a warlord surveying his newly conquered territory. "I did no such thing."

"But you do for him what you did for me."

"You're turning into a terrible Romantic in your old age, Dembe. He's a useful little pawn on a much larger chessboard." Speeding on into the night, the city lights glowed bright in the windshield, approaching fast. "Completely imagining things."

"Then he's just like me," Dembe replied, without heat or ire, and passed back a small case that had been sitting on the passenger seat. "Something special. Like you asked."

"Lovely."

"More than the bitch deserves."

"Now Dembe, is that any way to talk about a lady?"

He grunted. "She hurt Ressler."

"And since when do you care about Ressler?"

He nodded. That was fair - Dembe dealt with the FBI, sure, but he'd never been comfortable with it. Growing up where he did, a boy learned real young to never trust a cop. Ressler, as far as he'd been concerned, first time he'd met the man, was Example A of everything wrong with law enforcement. Not the beatings and the selfishness and the bullshit about being above the law. No. Ressler was that kind of dedicated that didn't know what the hell it was fighting for. Now, though...

"He's one of us now."

Mr. Reddington laughed, loud and happy, full of mirth.

Dembe smirked to himself, and the BMW sped on through the night.

+++++

Never bothering with notches or trophies, like some men in the business, Dembe had lost track of the number of people he'd killed for Mr. Reddington over the years. Dozens, probably, dozens more seriously injured, but it hardly mattered.

What he did enjoy paying attention to was the way the boss killed; who he killed, what they were like. There had been plenty along the way who'd known exactly what was coming, from the moment Dembe grabbed them out of bed, or coming home from work, or innocently using the restroom at their favorite bar, or whatever it was. There were always those who knew they weren't going to get away with it, that Mr. Reddington had already marked them for death.

And then, always, there were those that didn't.

Those were more fun. 

She was standing right where Dembe had told her to, on a street corner near the undamaged section of the harbor, a bright red scarf wrapped loosely around her neck, snapping in the breeze off the water. The woman only hesitated a moment as he stopped, as Mr. Reddington opened the door for her, but hopped in with a confidence completely at odds with her situation.

The second the door closed, the last of her time began ticking.

"Raymond, good to see you," she said busily, smoothing down her clothing as Dembe pulled back out into the near-empty streets; it was past midnight, a time when, as his Nana used to say, nothing good ever happens. "I trust everything is well?"

"Yes, of course. No thanks to you." He poured her a drink, passing it over. "All the king's horses and all the king's men had a hell of a time putting Donald back together again."

She laughed at the little rhyme, and clinked her crystal against his, smiling as she took a small sip. "Really, Raymond, are you angry about that?"

"Infuriated, Dana, my darling," he smiled back. Dembe, accustomed to the boss' voice at this point, could hear the fang in it. "He was in worse shape than I'd anticipated."

"It could have been worse."

"Yes." Mr. Reddington paused. "You were supposed to do your job for Camio, let him take Donny, and then inform me, immediately, of where he was."

"Raymond, really. Baudon passed down the grab order, a day earlier than I'd been anticipating, and..."

"Dana, darling, I realize this double-agent game is a great deal of fun. Part time for ATF and DIA, part time for Camio, but in all the excitement, you seem to have forgotten that your biggest paycheck's cut by me."

There was a long silence in the backseat.

Dembe hid his smile.

"You should have, at a minimum, told me that old bastard was going to be aboard. I hate surprises like that."

"His family's had connections to Caribbean transpo for years, but he hardly ever does, did, anything for General Camio directly. How was I supposed to know..."

"Like you're paid to know everything else."

"Baudon showing up was as much a surprise to me as it was you."

Dembe drove on, listening to the clinking of crystal, glasses being topped off. 

"But I thought you'd be pleased, Raymond."

"How's that?"

"The DIA still has your school records. We know he's had it out for you ever since his brother died that summer, on cruise with you. I figured, this was a chance for you to remove yet another problematic person from your life."

Another pause, and Dembe, in the rear-view mirror, could practically see the boss' rage growing.

"It was something you should have informed me of."

"I took care of it, Raymond. ATF picked him up in Baton Rouge two days ago. He'll spend the rest of his life behind bars."

"I assume you were taking care of that, instead of dealing with Donny?"

"Raymond, I was only gone a few days..."

"And they almost killed him! That little show was not part of the arrangement! I said to leave him unmarked!" Mr. Reddington thundered, anger unleashed all at once, and Dembe saw her cringe.

He checked the clock on the dash.

Enough time had passed. 

And Dembe took the next side street, out to the main highway that would take them far from Port-au-Prince. Into the safety, the anonymity, of the hills.

"Raymond, what did you expect me to do? You want me to what, blow my cover, just to save some piss-ant FBI agent who..."

There was a crash, and a thud, and a scream. 

Dembe kept his eyes on the road.

"He was too keyed up, too twitchy, not like the State Department people I know. He's killed people, Raymond, you can see it in his eyes." She was pleading now, her words slurring, and Dembe found his exit. "So I looked him up. His people didn't black out the federal law enforcement database. He's FBI, spent have a decade chasing you, is on some kind of black ops team now. I thought I'd be doing you a favor by not..."

"A favor? A favor? Dana, let me tell you a story about another individual who did me a favor. His name was Camio, and he allowed me to live, knowing just enough about the internal workings of his organization for me to have my very lovely contact at ATF open an investigation. Would have been fame and glory for that girl, and a neutralized enemy for me, had everyone done their jobs. 

A pause. Dembe sighed a little - Mr. Reddington always had been one for the dramatic.

"However, that girl and the ATF proved completely incompetent and I had to take advantage of his _favor_ myself. So three years later, his body was laying dead on the floor of his villa, his head stuck on a spike on the gate as a warning of what happens when you waste Raymond Reddington's time and personnel on something as fucking petty as a single lost shipment of slaves and cocaine." 

Dembe bristled a little at that word. In the rear-view mirror, Reddington was sitting comfortably beside her now, turned slightly towards her, head cocked, wiping his hand. Like it didn't bother him in the least. Maybe it didn't. Not much did, after all. 

But there was broken glass on the seat, on her lap. Blood on her temple.

There were two things that were always true, when it came to Mr. Reddington.

Immutable.

One was that Mr. Reddington never did anything that didn't, in some way, benefit himself.

The other was that Mr. Reddington truly cared about the people who worked under him.

"I don't really know what that has to do with you or where I was going with it, now that I think about it, but I'm sure a smart girl like you can figure it out." 

The girl was gasping, hands useless on the seat, fingers barely twitching. "Ra-Raymond... I can't... I can't breath..."

"That would be the high-dose paralytic I put on the rim of your glass. Don't worry, it's not enough to stop your heart." 

Cared, at least, until they stopped being useful.

Which was betrayal anyway, as far as Dembe was concerned; Mr. Reddington owed nothing to a traitor.

The road before them had turned to dirt and gravel, headed through a thick grove of trees, a large clearing up ahead, right on the top of a hill. 

Her breaths were loud, ragged, strained. Dembe parked in the center of the clearing, ignoring the noise, and watched Mr. Reddington pat her cheek as he got out as well.

"Thank you very much for that very generous favor, Dana. Now, please, let me return it."

+++++

They burned the car. Stuffed half that red scarf into the fuel tank and the other in her mouth and lit the whole thing on fire.

From a safe distance, they watched the flames lick the clear night sky, sea air whipping it into a whirlwind.

And, watching it, Dembe couldn't hold it in any longer. He knew. He knew what Mr. Reddington had done, and why he'd done it. There was, his boss had told him once, something instructive in pain, in pushing a man beyond his limits, taking him into the dark corners of his soul, where no light from the outside world could shine in, disrupt the process. Some men - and Dembe had seen it - went insane. Others broke. But some... 

"You knew they were going to torture him, boss. You needed them to. Break him open all the ways you couldn't, so you could put him back together again."

The reply was a long time coming.

And addressed nothing.

"I want you to make the arrangements back in DC," Reddington said, as metal twisted and flesh popped. "I want everything ready for him, when he decides to go."

"You aren't gonna take him yourself?"

"Dembe, this is a man whose heart is broken. That, I can work with. Hell, that, I understand. Push him too hard, I risk breaking his spirit, which renders him useless." Mr. Reddington rubbed his hands, holding them out to the flames below. "What he gave the FBI, I need him to give me. And trust me, it is something that can only be given." His face darkened, eyes narrowing in the roaring red shadows. "If I learned anything at Annapolis, it was that."

The younger man didn't bother pointing out his own history, how much differently Mr. Reddington handled him. But then, he had been barely more than a child, and starving for freedom. 

Ressler was a different situation altogether.

"It's a risk, boss."

Mr. Reddington just nodded, and turned away, heading back down the hill to the main road, where Dembe had stashed a second car, just for this. "And Christopher Columbus could have stayed on his couch, but where would that have gotten any of us?" he yelled back.

Dembe sighed, and, following his boss, pulled out his phone, typed a text with his thumbs. 

_Prep the jet. He's on his way._

From the highway, he could still see the flames.


	9. Chapter 9

Muscles sore and skin tight, Ressler stripped the loose Underarmour shirt off, tossing it vaguely in the direction of his gym bag, eyes on the shower.

He was that kind of exhausted that only came from a fight conditioning, using your own weight against your own body, and he winced as he stepped under the spray. Too hot, the FBI man decided, and dialed it down. His skin was still healing from Sunday; with two more sessions to go, he was looking forward to having this done. It itched now, skin flaking off in thin, blackened sheets, but the night of? All he's been able to feel was the endorphins. He'd been so keyed-up, actually, he'd gone home and jerked off. 

Or whatever a guy was supposed to call it when he used a dildo. 

Ressler had never used anything like that before, but the damn thing had been left on his pillow, a little present packaged far nicer than any sex toy should ever be, and he figured, what the hell. Red had obviously left it for him. The thing was small and smooth and he'd been really horny. Didn't help he kept dreaming about Haiti. About Reddington, and his fingers and-

He groaned to himself, as his cock swelled in the shower, and turned the temperature on the water down a little more.

Last thing he needed was to be popping a boner in the open-bay showers at his local MMA gym.

Even this early in the morning, when it was unlikely anyone would walk in on him.

The rest of the guys usually went home, after the morning class, to shower and get ready for work. Ressler didn't see any point. If he stayed an extra fifteen minutes, it was just that much more time on the heavy bag, and the drive time was about the same, with traffic and all that.

Lathering a handful of gel soap across his chest, he kept his back as far out of the water as he could, eyes closed, savoring.

He'd been doing as much of that as he could, lately. 

Even the crappy coffee Amir made tasted good these days.

Things had been different, since Haiti, since... everything. Where it had shifted for him, Ressler wasn't quite sure. Could have been in the pit, or in the clinic, or that night with Red that... well, he still couldn't figure out what the hell had gotten into him, what he'd been thinking, but it'd been good. Not life-altering, but good.

Waking up without Red there the next morning, though, that, that had sucked.

A month and a half ago, without so much as a single snarky comment from the bastard.

They were still working Blacklist cases, but Red was sticking to his usual tricks - harassing Cooper after hours, liaisoning with Keen, ignoring the rest of the team as much as he could. Ressler supposed it should have bothered him, but for whatever reason, it didn't. Nothing really seemed to be bothering him. Not the bodies, not getting shot at, not Keen's teasing comments that always pricked just a little too deep. Nothing.

He'd called State on a lark, that morning, eating breakfast in the little dining room that overlooked the ocean. Ressler hadn't been expecting much, but the fake identity was still working. Fourteen hours later, he'd been on a first class red-eye back to DC. Red had left him his clothes and his camera, but no cash and no ID other than Irvington's passport, so, feeling only slight guilty about it, he'd lifted a thirty-euro tip off a table at an airport bar. Wasn't enough for a cab - especially after the usurious exchange rates at the Dulles Travelex - but it got him a Metrorail ticket and a large cup of coffee.

The dildo had been waiting for him at home.

It took him a few days to realize the pregnancy test was gone as well, box and all.

Ressler supposed that all should have bothered him too.

It didn't. 

The rest of Audrey's things - the little bits and pieces of her, the ones that had started to creep into his apartment, before she died - he was finally able to throw away or box up, ship back to her parents. 

He'd put his photos of her away.

She wasn't the first thing he thought about when he woke up.

Ressler wasn't sure why not, what had changed in him, only that it wasn't numbness, like it had been before. There was nothing profound in it, no great revelation or epiphany or anything like that. No, something had simply healed up, or closed off, maybe, but that was fine.

It was nothing he needed anyway.

Ressler had always tried so hard to play by the rules, stay inside the lines, do the right thing... but it had always been other men's rules, other men's right thing.

He was sick of it.

He was so, so sick of it.

Head dipped under the pounding water now, Ressler didn't hear the locker room door open. He sure as hell heard it click shut, though, the internal deadbolt sliding into place, and he jerked up. 

"Hello?"

"This certainly isn't the place I would have recommended," came the answer, delivered in a voice Ressler found himself smiling to hear. "How disgustingly small it is."

Ressler turned the water off - clean enough, like anybody at work cared what he smelled like - and turned around. "I like it."

"It's horrible. You live in a first-world nation, Donny, no point in indulging in something like this. Disgusting."

True, there were bigger places in town, better, ones with new ceiling tile and weight rooms that weren't a weird hodgepodge of different equipment brands and heavy bags that weren't duct-taped to fuck. But Ressler had wrestled, once, long ago, and he'd lived in DC for years, and the only people who used the clean, shiny, expensive places were guys who wanted an exercise program. The stripes on a belt. The trappings.

"Wouldn't have been enough," he said, shrugging, not caring if Reddington understood that or not. He padded barefoot and naked back to his bag. "Feels good, you know? Hitting the mats again."

His towel was held out for him, over the top of his bag. Reddington, his brilliant blue tie set off against the dark charcoal of his waistcoat, smiled at him as he took it. "Feels like you, doesn't it?"

"Mostly feels like getting my ass kicked, so pretty familiar, yeah," he joked, only slightly bitter, and ran the towel into his hair. 

"That's not what I meant."

"I know what you meant."

Reddington cocked his head, and then nodded, sitting down on the bench, next to his bag. "Then you should answer my question correctly."

"And maybe you shouldn't have left me in Haiti by myself," he snapped back, angrier than he meant to.

"Not to quote one of those Batman movies, but I wanted to see what you'd do," Reddington replied without missing a beat, and started digging through his bag. "And you didn't disappoint."

"Was that all Haiti was? A test?"

"That's all life ever is, Donny, is a test. One situation preparing you for the next, and..." the criminal pulled his underwear out of his gym bag. His...

The clothing and the camera had come back with him from Haiti.

All the clothing. 

"Can I take this to mean you've missed me?"

"Umm, no, I have no idea how those..."

"Oh, Donny, you misunderstand. I find it fascinating that you're wearing these. All day. At work." Reddington nodded. "Do you mind if I inquire as to why?"

_Because they're what I had clean today and they're comfortable an they feel damn good on my cock when I jerk off and because I never know when you're going to walk into the Post Office to talk to Keen or Cooper and ignore me and I can't stop thinking that'll you finally just..._

But the man was a fucking psychic or something, because he just smiled, as Ressler's face grew hot.

"So, when I bring in your new case today and drag Agent Keen along on a new adventure," he said slowly, turning the panties over in his hand, "I get to think about you, waiting for me, with this under your clothing."

Ressler took them back, balling the pale silk up in one rough hand. "Don't fuck with me, Red."

"No, of course not. Just plain fucking you is so much more fun."

He swallowed. "Raymond..."

"You've been such a good boy, Donny. So patient for me," Reddington said, pressing closer, stroking a hand down his back. Down the pale splotches of boiled skin, that would never truly tan or freckle again. Around the sore edges of the fresh tattoo, the black dot pattern that was just starting to reveal that albatross, rising from the waves of some stormy sea. "So relentless."

Ressler closed his eyes. He'd broken after the first month, starting doing his research, trying to find that place Reddington had been talking about, the tattoo parlor with the artist who was good with that style. Called a couple of places in town, asking around.

 _Oh, Donald Irvington?_ the fourth place had said, when he inquired about pricing. _We have your design and your payment already. The artist's been excited to start, said it's going to be a very unique piece. When can I pencil you in? Does Sunday work, for your first session?_

_Your website says you have a six month wait time and..._

_Like I said, we've got your payment already._

He'd almost hung up.

Said _Sunday_ instead.

Before he even knew what he was doing.

Before he could stop himself.

"Didn't do it for you."

Reddington just smiled that predator's smile, and brandished the small jar of Aquaphor. "Why don't we get that lubed up and bandaged, Agent, before you put that tragically cheap suit of yours back on?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And that's it, folks! Sorry for the short final chapter, but thanks for sticking with me through all of this! Think Ressler's in an okay place...for now...)


End file.
